Star Fox: Legacy, Volume I
by chaos Leader
Summary: Have you ever wondered how it all happened? How all Lylat turned against itself in war? How a scientist of all people led the charge? How one mercenary team became the icon we know today? This volume lays the foundations for a greater story to come.
1. Undiscovered Possibilities

あなたはこの物語を知っています。  
_You know this story..._

一応、果てを知っています。  
_Or at least you know how it ends._

It ends in bloodshed across worlds.  
It ends in utter devastation, both tangible and emotional.  
It ends with the event that defined an era.

この物語は全体を始めました。  
_This is the story that started it all..._

It is a nebulous tale – hinted at, but never fully explored.  
It is a sequence of events so often taken for granted, that must work out somehow.  
It is one of the greatest stories never told...  
Until now.

ライラット系の物語を語るつもりです。  
_I will tell you the story of the Lylat System:_  
I will show you how it worked, how it faltered and at last, failed.  
I will show you the politics, economics and society that drove it.  
I will show you its people, with hopes, dreams and issues of their own...

スターフォックスの物語を語るつもりです。  
_I will tell you the story of Star Fox:_  
I will show you how it all began, how it nearly ended.  
I will show you why the villains fell to their faults,  
And how the heroes rose to the challenge...

ジェームズ・マクラウド の物語を語るつもりです。  
_I will tell you the story of James McCloud:_  
I will show you how he lived, how he loved...  
I will show you how he fought, won, lost...  
And at the end of all things:  
I will show you his fate.

の遺産の物語を語るつもりです。  
_I will tell you the story of the Legacy... _

**-****スターフォックスの遺産****-**  
**-Star Fox: Legacy-**

**未知の可能性**_**  
Undiscovered Possibilities**_

What little direct sunlight there was arrived filtered through layer upon layer of dense vegetation, split into thin bands or dispersed by the leaves, vines, and branches of the area's overcrowded trees. The surrounding air steamed hot and thick with with permeating moisture. It was in some ways like the inside of a sauna, but in a stifling, almost nauseating way that comes with clouds of flies, mosquitoes, and any number of other tiny, irritating winged insects...

_*Smack!*_

"Bloody gnats..."  
A dark, wiry terrier with oily black fur struck himself below the cheek, and wiped off the insect's smeared remains onto the heavy khaki fabric of his shirt, dampened partly with sweat, and partly with the jungle's sheer humidity. A military style tactical vest was secured over his rugged clothing, complete with an integrated holster containing a large-caliber blaster handgun – common for a soldier, mercenary, or otherwise sensible individual on a long journey through unsafe territory. More distinct though was the shoulder-belt slung across the terrier's back bearing an archaic style broadsword, but apparently augmented with more contemporary features...

He reached back and pulled a water canteen from a bulky backpack laden with wilderness survival gear, and took a much needed drink as he continued this wearying trek through the dense jungle floor. The armed terrier didn't travel alone, but he'd fallen a little behind the party. Some several paces ahead in a small grassy clearing were three other figures, two of which were equipped with bulky packs similar to the dark terrier, but the third appeared a partly feral reptilian clothed with little more than his bare leathery hide, exposing most of his limber body.

After a brief exchange with the two others ahead, the reptilian plodded away from the clearing toward the armed terrier, and each gave the other a stinkeyed glare as they strode past...

"Gisteht _dyotor_."  
It sounded a like an insult, but the terrier only responded to it with a slightly puzzled, slightly offended wince...

He caught up with the two other backpack-bearing figures in the clearing, the first of which was a fairly young avian woman with bright yellow plumage, and a somewhat nervous disposition in her voice.  
"I know he and the rest of his tribe are forbidden to even set foot near this shrine, but I'm not sure sending our guide away like that was the best idea..."  
She glanced over her shoulder toward the limber reptilian, who was quickly disappearing into the jungle thicket.  
"What if he talks?"

The other figure was a slim mid-aged hound with a long slender muzzle, and a more confident composure than his avian companion.  
"Don't worry Beverly, he's not going to talk. The lightfoots may not trust us, but they don't really trust anybody else either..."  
He stepped further into the clearing – a flat, grassy circle about twenty meters across.  
"All things considered, it's probably better he's not around for this."

"And good riddance too." the terrier scoffed as he followed forward, "What'd that scaly chookter call me anyway?"

"Translating his Saurian _very _politely, Scott, I'd say 'gisteht dyotor' comes out roughly 'stinking furball'..."  
The slim hound began pacing along the outside of the clearing, scanning the tree-lined circle's edge until he stopped next to a dense tangle of vines brambles a few meters wide.  
"The entrance should be right here," he said as he motioned into the impassible cluster, "but vegetation must've grown over it after so long, after so many unattended centuries."

"_Way_ ahead of ye, Harrison..."  
Scott drew the broadsword off his back as he stepped up to the brambles, and began hacking away at the dense knot of undergrowth with his impromptu machete.  
"Might take... about that long... just tae cut through all this~"

_*Clank!*_

"Heh, or maybe not."  
The blade struck something hard behind the tangle of vines, something similar to stone...

"Step away Scott, now..."  
Harrison brushed the terrier aside and clawed at sword's sword's point of contact, ripping away the vines and ferns in a single-minded frenzy. He soon stripped away the last layer of plant-matter, and revealed a smooth vertical surface of dark gray rock underneath. The slim hound felt along the stone slab, searching, feeling, and he found it; a round hole about a centimeter across in the otherwise featureless plane.  
"Yes, yes, this is _it!_"  
Harrison pulled at a thin cord fastened around his neck and fished out an object from under his shirt attached to the cord – it looked like a small violet-tinted quartz crystal. He plunged the crystal into the corresponding hole in the wall, and a light flashed across the stone surface, followed by trembling as if in an earthquake and a dull stone-on-stone scraping...

"Stand back." Harrison said, motioning for Scott and Beverly to back off.

The smooth stone split into to two halves, cracking open before the party like the pages of an ancient tome until and everything came to a stop. The surface was gone, and a narrow corridor made of the same gray stony material descended underground in a gentle slope and curve. There was some light down this corridor – a quiet, iridescent glow that didn't appear to emanate from any single source. The light was simply there, eternal...

"Let's go."  
Harrison stepped straight into the corridor and began along gentle downward slope, with the other two following close behind.

"Whoa, hold on guys." Beverly warned, not a few paces into the descending corridor.  
She slipped a monitoring device off her belt and checked its readings.  
"The ion-radiation just jumped about point-six rads in here. I'll bet that's were that weird ambient light is coming from."

"Anything we ought be worried about?" Scott asked.

"We should be okay if we're not here more than a few hours." the avian assured as set her pack down and began rummaging through it, "Still, we should all take inoculations just to be safe..."  
She produced thee thin cylinders from a pocket of her pack – autoinjector tubes – and uncapped one of them before injecting the dose into her arm. After her inoculation , she offered the other two to Scott and Harrison.

"I'm not taking the chances..."  
The terrier accepted the autoinjector, and administered the inoculation into his own arm without hesitation.

"And you, Dr. Harrison?"  
Beverly held out the last inoculation to the slim hound.

"Thanks, but I won't need any." Harrison declined.

"But~"

"It's alright Beverly," He cut the avian off, "I know what I'm doing."

"It's your DNA." Beverly remarked with a shrug.  
She replaced the unused tube and hoisted her pack onto her back again before joining the rest of the party...

The group continued down the eerie corridor with few words between them. The air inside was much cooler, and less damp, but it carried a hint of power not unlike the distinct smell in the air when a thunderstorm was imminent.

"This place gives me the willies." Scott muttered, glancing around the corners, floors and ceilings, as if he were expecting to find booby traps, or something sinister...

Beverly appeared to fidgeting with similar anxieties, and stifled them with speech.  
"It's all the same architecture as the Saurian's most important monuments, but it's all in much better condition. Just look at these floors and walls..." She gestured around them, "You see, there's no creeping vines, no fungi, or lichen, or any living material whatsoever down here. This ambient radiation would've killed off any organisms that tried settling in."  
The avian brushed her winglike hand across the walls as they walked on...  
"I would've loved to stay a bit longer and take a few samples of this stone material, but that's not why we're here..."

"That's right Beverly," Harrison responded over his shoulder, "We're here for something far more important."

"And when are ye goin'tae fill _me_ in on what's so important?" Scott asked.

The party reached a stone door at the end of the corridor, similar to the entrance far behind them, but without any jungle overgrowth.  
"We won't have to tell you Scott, you'll see it for yourself right here..."  
Again, Harrison inserted the small violet quartz into the hole. The crystal flashed with a brief blaze of light, and the two halves of stone crept apart from each other...

The room beyond was a great deal larger – almost gymnasium sized. It looked built in the same exotic architecture and lit with the same sourceless indigo glow permeating through the rest of the 'shrine'. The center was dominated almost entirely by a broad platform raised a few feet off the ground. The center of this platform held only one thing: a lone statue. The sculpture's form resembled a kind of ape or simian, standing at perfect attention with a sceptre clasped in one hand, but the facial proportions on its head were all off. The mouth was shrunken, the forehead much larger, plus the nose and chin were far more pronounced than any known primate species in Lylat. It was at the same time both alien and eerily familiar...

"Is _that_ what we came here for?" Scott asked, pointing out the solitary statue.

"In a way..."  
Harrison stepped into the room, and dropped his heavy backpack on the floor near the entrance.  
"Tell me Scott, how effective is your impact-claymore on rock?"

"Depends on the density, really..." the terrier explained as he dumped his own pack onto the floor next to Harrison's, "But it'll crack most stones clean apart with a good burly thrust."

Beverly barely contained a laugh.  
"Sorry, it's just..." she followed suit and set her pack down too, "Never mind."

Harrison ignored her, continuing on with Scott.  
"What we need is _inside_ that statue, and we need you to break it open so we can get at it."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"Ye're keeping something from me, aren't ye?"  
The terrier asked, highly charged with suspicions.

"It'll make more sense once you step up there..."  
Harrison gestured toward a set of steps leading to the top of the platform.  
"Good luck."

Scott climbed the short flight of steps to the top of the platform and began walking toward the statue. A light flashed from the statue similar to the doors, and then it came to life. The stone figure opened its small angled eyes, both of which shone brightly with a pale blue light, and the sceptre in its hands extended into a full-length staff. The stone figure took a few heavy steps, whirling the staff around itself with a warrior's precision.

The terrier stopped in his tracks, stunned.  
"What's all this then?"

"The inscription here reads _Test of Prowess_..." Harrison replied, looking over a text carved in the steps, "So you'll just have to prove your prowess in a duel."

"What? Ye mean against this eh... what'ye call it?"

"We're not sure if the Saurians have a word for it, but for lack of a better word we've decided to call it a 'Krazoa Golem'." Beverly answered quite casually, "You'll do fine, you're an expert at this whole fighting thing."

Scott turned back to the statue with a weary grumble.  
"This only gets stranger and bloody _stranger..._"  
He drew his broadsword and assumed a well-practiced swordsman's fighting stance.  
"Yer move, ye stone-faced git."

The statue stood waiting with its staff held ready, its two eyes of light never leaving the oily black terrier for an instant.

"So that's the way ye're gonnae have, is it?"  
Scott stepped forward and performed an experimental thrust, but the statue spun the staff in a defensive sweep that knocked the blade aside.

The terrier started off as simply as possible, testing his peculiar opponent with a basic series of routine cuts and thrusts, and the golem's fighting style gradually revealed itself. It used sweeping spins as a defense, flinging blows aside with the staff whirling like a turbine. The statue favored lighting-quick thrusts for its offense, but also used a variety of sweeps, strikes and slams when appropriate. Though a staff can strike with both ends, it can only strike with a single end at any given time; it was still a single weapon. Its length offered a reach advantage, but it also provided a greater length to use as leverage. The staff's advantages at a distance could be easily undermined, but only if one can get inside the whirling barrier of spinning staff...

After a few exchanges between them, an opportunity came when the statue came forward with a normal downward strike. Scott deflected the blow to his right, then quickly stepped in and slipped the claymore's blade down between statue's right arm and wedged under the staff. From here, the terrier cranked his sword in a counterclockwise motion under his opponent's forearm that forced the staff back, using sheer leverage to break the golem's grip from it's weapon and leave it completely open – a strip-away technique. Scott maintained the sword's rotating momentum, and followed-up by smashing the claymore's heavy crossguard into the statue's face. The dark terrier kept going still, spinning from the crossguard blow into a back-kick while simultaneously drawing his large-caliber blaster handgun with his empty left hand. As expected, the statue-warrior was forced to stagger back a few feet, and Scott raised his handgun to bear on the golem before loosing three blazing shots into the reeling stone figure.

_* Blam! *_ _Blam! *_ _Blam! *_

Nothing.

From all that, only the statue's prominent nose had broken off from the cross-guard strike, and three black scorches marked its chest where the blaster shots landed. Such a maneuver would've obliterated a living fighter of flesh-and-bone, but the stone figure was apparently unfazed, and came at the terrier once again with its staff swinging...

The golem kept hammering at Scott's defenses with the same unrelenting robotic precision to its staff technique. The fight wasn't going to end quickly, and it didn't need to for the statue-warrior to win. It'd only be a matter of time for Scott to become tired and worn out, for his own technique to get sloppy from exhaustion. That's when the fighting golem, which didn't use any organic muscles or need any breath, could easily finish the breathless terrier off. In many respects, the battle was almost like fighting an opponent encased in power-armor...

Power-armor clad fighters retained most of their natural agility, were notoriously heavy, and practically indestructible, much like this statue-warrior. The way to beat power-armor was to strike at the weak points – usually the joints. But the golem had no 'weak point' at its joints, it was _made_ of stone. But however tough this statue-warrior was, it's broken nose proved it was far from indestructible, and had its weaknesses. Under enough pressure, wood will splinter and snap, metal will bend and shear away, and stone will crack and crumble...

The statue-warrior came in for a low sweep at Scott's left leg. He blocked the strike with a low guard and transitioned cleanly into a hard downward cut. As expected, the statue-warrior caught the blade with the middle of the staff. Scott lunged forward underneath, intending to slam the claymore's hard pommel into his opponent's chin with an uppercut blow, but it never connected...

_*_ _Thunk! *_

The statue-warrior intercepted the terrier with a solid knee-strike to the chest. The blow knocked Scott away hard on his back, but he managed to harness the momentum, rolling backwards onto his feet again. There were definitely some cracked ribs and bruising, but the terrier had more immediate concerns and couldn't yet be bothered by troublesome injuries. He shook it off and stepped forward, resuming the battle against his stony opponent once more...

Blade and staff clashed again in the deadly dance of the duel. One fighter unnaturally patient and methodical, the other brash and uncanny. Neither could find an opening in the other to exploit, and the fight seemed a stalemate for some time. Time – the more it passed, the more Scott wore himself out, and the more his technique would slip while his opponent held rock steady. He needed to end the fight, and end it quickly. When the statue-warrior thrust its staff once again, the terrier was only barely able to catch it and redirect it downward, between his legs...

Scott reached down and grabbed the staff in his left hand. The terrier chambered his blade back for one final thrust, and pulled the toggle to engage the sword's impact mechanism for the fatal blow, drawong a low hum from the weapon. But before he could launch his attack, the statue-warrior hefted the staff upward over its head, with Scott still holding on as he ascended. He kept on going in the vertical circle, to where the floor was coming down to crush him on the other side. And there was something else: the statue-warrior's unprotected back...

Scott flipped the claymore into a backhand grip, readied the blade over his right shoulder, and waited for the right instant – there'd only be one chance at this. Descending headfirst toward the floor above him, the terrier jammed the point of his sword into the small of his opponent's back as hard and as quickly as he~

_* Slam! *_

…

…

…

When Scott opened his eyes, he was staring at the hilt of his sword, stuck straight into the golem's back. He was laying on the platform floor just behind his opponent, where he must've landed on his back. The terrier pushed himself onto his feet, staggering from the shooting pains. Those cracked ribs we sure stinging now, and probably with a few more bangs, bumps and bruises. The skewered statue-warrior stood stock still, holding the staff over its paralyzed head. With one last ounce of determination, Scott grasped the hilt of his broadsword, engaged the impact mechanism, and twisted the blade with what strength he still had...

_* Crack! *_

The golem broke apart into several pieces and collapsed to the ground as little more than a pile of rubble on the platform. Exhausted and panting from his bout, Scott brushed the dust off his blade and slipped it into the baldric across his back, then spotted something off. The pieces of broken stone at the terrier's feet began to glow with an odd blue light, and the sound of a hundred voices filled his ears, all whispering at once. Then a small luminescent cloud rose out of the debris into the center of the chamber, radiating the same indigo blue~

"Get back, Scott!"  
Dr. Harrison had stepped onto the platform, and strode toward the statue-warrior's shattered remains with a determined purpose.  
"You have _no_ idea what that is."

"And you do?"  
Bewildered, Scott backed away from the glowing apparition and let Harrison take his place.

The slim hound answered Scott's question with a solemn nod as he gazed upon the hazy blue patch with a similar wonderment as a child...  
"And I'll know even more soon enough."

The cloud descended, and hovered in front of Harrison for a few moments, then surged forward, knocking the lanky canine off his feet as he became engulfed in the glowing aurora, but he didn't fall. Instead, Harrison was lifted several feet off the ground, where he hung in the air suspended by nothing at all. The glowing blue aurora began to fade, and Harrison sank back to the floor on his hands and knees, apparently drained by the experience...

"Bring the first-aid Beverly, quick!"  
Scott rushed to Harrison's aid as fast as his battered body could take him, with the young avian accompanying at his side.  
"What the bloody hell's happened tae him?"

Compared to Scott, Beverly did not seem at all alarmed by the bizarre events, and answered the terrier's confused question quite calmly.  
"He's alright, that's what it's supposed to do."

"And _what_ sort of contermashious thingme is supposed tae be doing _that?_" Scott demanded, referring to Dr. Harrison on the floor, "It's like _magic,_ straight from a fairy-fantasy."

"The only difference between magic and science is an understanding..."  
Harrison stood up on his own, slowly, massaging his forehead as if slightly dazed or dizzy. When he took his hand down from his face, a pair of pinpoint blue lights were revealed gleaming within the black pupils of his eyes.  
"If I told you _exactly_ what you were getting into when I hired you, would you have believed me? Would you still have taken this job?"

"I... well..." Scott muttered, fidgeting and avoiding eye-contact.

"You don't have to answer..."  
Harrison blinked a few times, and the surreal lights in his eyes began to fade down and out of sight.  
"You'll receive your payment once we arrive at the Cerinia Institute, and you can believe whatever you want to about what you just witnessed..."

The group gathered their equipment and departed from the 'shrine' using the same narrow, ambiently glowing corridor they came through. None of the three spoke a word to each other on the way out, marring the otherwise perfect silence with the sound of their footsteps and breathing. When they reached the clearing at the surface, Dr. Harrison, Beverly and Scott were welcomed back into the world with the glare of sunlight, the jungle's sweltering heat, and a surprise...

Four soldiers in unmarked camouflaged uniforms materialized silently from cover, shrouded behind the trees and vegetation encircling the clearing. They moved in toward the group with a silent, dead-certain step of the highly trained and disciplined. The soldiers all wore form-fitting masks and headsets that hid their faces, and wielded a variety of top quality small arms at the ready...

"Drop your weapons." one of the shadowy soldiers ordered, aiming an assault rifle squarely at Scott's face. Neither in a position to fight nor argue, the terrier complied, slinging the impact claymore off his back and removing his blaster handgun from its holster before setting them on the ground.

Another voice spoke up, but it wasn't any of the soldiers.  
"Arno Harrison, you surprise me. I didn't think you had it in you..."  
The latest speaker stepped out from behind a nearby tree casually, as if he were just taking a pleasant stroll through the woods. He was an eagle plumed white on his head, dark brown on his wings, and dressed in unremarkable but appropriate clothing for the hot and humid tropical climate.

"Who are you?" Harrison demanded, "What's going on here?"

"Who I am isn't important, but I represent Lylat Central Intelligence..."  
Beneath the eagle's relaxed veneer was a precision – a carefully controlled command behind every word and every action that said without words that me meant business.  
"What _is_ important is who _you_ are and what _you_ are doing here."

The slim hound gave a nervous shrug to the enigmatic newcomer.  
"I'm just a scientist."

"I know..."  
The eagle nodded slowly, and with absolute certainty.  
"But you're a scientist under peculiar circumstances, conducting field research in almost complete secrecy, and with the financial backing of black market investors~"

"I don't believe this..." Harrison snapped back in outrage, "Do you have any idea what's been here all along? Not even the native Saurian tribes understand what's buried on this far-flung planet, and they _live_ here! Some sort of research _has _to be done, otherwise there'll be no telling _what_ could happen if it gets into the wrong hands."

"My thoughts exactly..."  
The avian agent stepped forward, coming face-to-face with Arno Harrison.  
"We just want to help."

"That so?..." Scott asked, glancing uncertainly to the silent soldiers around them, "Ye've got a right queer way of showing it then."

Beverly shot a worried glance at the dark terrier.  
"Don't give them any excuses."

"Look..." Harrsion replied wearily at the eagle, "I have to get back to the Cerinia Institute, immediately."  
He began to step back toward Scott and Beverly.  
"Now if let us pass~"

The agent shot his hand out and held the slim hound in place.  
"I can't do that."

"Yes you can, and you really should..."  
Harrison shoved the other's hand off his shoulder.  
"If you and the poor excuse of a government you work for truly want to help, then I suggest you send your gun toting boy-scouts home and arrange an appointment with my secretary."

"Alright Harrison. I've tried being reasonable with you, and I've even played along with your little game, but enough is _enough_..."  
The casual mask was gone, revealing the agent's cold, hard, and mechanically precise mentality.  
"Whether you realize it or not, the nature of your research presents a major security risk to the people of Lylat, and is only further compounded by the seedier connections you've made pursuing it. One way or another you _will_ be coming with me – whether it's willingly like a gentleman or bound and gaged like a prisoner is your choice."

"Don't you understand _anything_ I've been telling you? What I've uncovered is probably way beyond security, and those scheming gangsters, and the decisions I was roped into making. I have no intention of being your pet egghead, or anyone else's for that matter... "  
Harrison glared into the avian agent with his teeth bared, and the tips of his fingers began to tremble with small spasms.  
"You can't just treat me like one of _Them!_"

"Actually, I believe I understand perfectly..."  
The eagle backed away from the angered hound, behind the safety of his shadowy entourage.  
"I was hoping it wouldn't have to be this way."

The agent made a commanding gesture toward Harrison, and one of the soldiers slung his rifle over a shoulder as he closed in on the slim hound, reached for a pair of handcuffs from his belt. But then stopped, and went for his side-arm instead...

Noticing his comrade hesitate and expecting the worst, one of the other soldiers stepped forward with piqued suspicion.  
"What's going on, Buckley?"

The individual identified as Buckley took a step back, and assumed a more combat-ready stance as he drew his side-arm pistol.  
"I'm not~"

_* Crack! *_

A flash of blueish light silhouetted the the soldier's head before could finish, and his lifeless body collapsed to the ground as it went limp. Harrison was there on the other side, with an open hand extended where Buckley's head was a moment earlier. His eyes were ablaze with a searing blue light, and his face contorted in a ghastly grimace.

The three remaining soldiers snapped their assault rifles into fire-ready positions, all aimed directly at the crazed figure of Arno Harrison. Their discipline was solid, showing no fear given the unexpected turn of events, but they still hesitated a moment, and that moment was long enough...

The slim hound drew his lips back in a toothy grin as he brought his hands out in front, both of which ignited in a luminescent blue aurora.

* _Crack!_ *

Claws of lightning erupted from his outstretched arms, striking each of the camo-clad figures in their faces before they had chance to fire. The jungle clearing shone brighter for a time, lit-up by Harrison's blazing arcs of electrostatic discharge. The soldiers' agonized cries of pain were barely heard, smothered over by the lightning's screech and crackle...

The lightning stopped, and the four soldiers' lifeless bodies fell dead to the ground below them. The mutilated corpses stank of their scorched flesh, still sizzling and smoking from the attack, and their faces burnt into featureless black husks that barely clung to their skulls. Absent though was the avian agent of Lylat Central Intelligence...

Harrison appeared unharmed, even cracking a satisfied smile and a laugh at his deadly handiwork. But then his laugh degenerated into a labored wheezing, and his knees started to shake and buckle beneath him. A brutal fit of coughs wracked the hound, spraying an inky black liquid from his thin muzzle, until he finally collapsed to the ground.

"Arno!"  
Beverly rushed to the aid of her fallen colleague and helped him onto his back. To her alarm, patches of Harrison's fur began to fall out, brushed away like it wasn't even attached at all.

"What's happening tae him?"  
Scott scooped up his handgun from the ground and prepped it for use, scanning the area for any contacts...

The young avian tore her pack off her back, opened it and extracted a first aid kit, which she put to use almost immediately...  
"I don't know. It's like radiation poisoning, but all at once."

"See what ye can do..."  
The terrier brought his weapon up and began a quick search, leaving Beverly Finch alone with the slim, ailing hound. Scott brought his weapon up and quickly scanned the trees for any movement, any sign of reinforcements. The four unknown soldiers were completely dead and not a threat, but the eagle from before was nowhere to be found – no body, and no signs that he stuck around. Gripped by this undefined fear, the mercenary terrier approached the nearest soldier's corpse...

"What the hell were you _thinking?_" Beverly muttered mostly to herself, her hands flying tirelessly from the first-aid kit to Arno Harrison's decrepit shell of a body.

"B... Beverly..." Dr. Harrison wheezed, barely managing to speak between bouts of gurgling, fluid filled coughs.

"Hold still Arno, you'll be alright..."  
Using an autoinjector tube, she administered dose after dose of antibiotics, adrenal steroids, antiemetics – anything else that might slow the rapid process of decay.

But despite the yellow bird's best attempts, Harrison's body was still falling apart on the cellular level. Fur continued to fall out at the slightest brush, revealing several patches of blackened dying skin underneath.  
"It won't work, there's... no use."  
He gurgled and bubbled as he breathed, which meant his lungs were rapidly filling up with fluid. The black, ink-like liquid even began to seep out of his nose.

Beverly's heart raced, and her breath quickened as her determined hands continued desperately to hold on to Harrison's life.  
"Don't you dare talk like that, I can still save you..."  
She pulled out an oxygen mask from the kit, and started the enriched airflow as she prepared to apply it to the dying hound's face~

"_No!..._"  
Harrison knocked her hand and mask away with a clumsy swipe.  
"L... Look at me Beverly, in the eyes... just look..."  
With he trembling hand he pushed back the dark lensed glasses onto his forehead, and his other found one of Beverly's empty hands to clutch. The two of them looked the other squarely in the eyes as Harrison requested. Though his eyes were webbed with bleeding and bloodshot vessels, a pair of pale blue lights still shone behind each of his pupils – lights which seemed to penetrate further than just the surface, into the mind.  
"Y... you'll know..."

The lights in his eyes flared brightly, and began to flicker on and off like the flashes of a strobing light. The flickering began to pick up speed, switching from blindingly bright to total darkness quicker and quicker, on and off, on and off, until it was finally impossible to distinguish the darkness from the light...

And then it stopped.

Arno Harrison laid motionless below her, dead, and those troubling lights in his eyes were gone. Beverly flinched away when she realized what just happened, and rapidly checked her vitals for anything unusual, or out of place. The only thing that seemed abnormal was a newfound headache pounding against the inside of her skull...

Scott knelt down next to one of the soldiers, Buckely, who still clutched the grip of his side-arm blaster. On closer inspection, the pistol turned out to be a state-of-the-art and difficult to obtain Aran Arms VED56-S – he was definitely more than a simple grunt, or gun for hire. The terrier set the blaster aside, anf stripped away the dead soldier's flex-armor vest before undoing the military-style camouflage jacket underneath, where a pair identical ID tags hung around Buckley's neck.

[BUCKLEY, FRANCIS, J.]  
[M8564902, C/B+]  
[CSOF: Δ]  
[NOPREF]

It was an ID tag used for the Cornerian Special Forces.

Scott immediately stepped back and away, bringing his handgun up once again as he scrutinized the surrounding jungle, searching for any sign of anything out of place. A second wave could be anywhere, lurking, stalking. Special Forces were deployed almost exclusively either for the highest level of danger or the highest level of secrecy, and often both in tandem...

Not finding any readily apparent reinforcements, the terrier went down to Buckley again, and removed the headset from the charred remains of his head. It was still active, so Scott brought the device to his ear to listen-in on the comm channel. There was nothing – no static, no cries of alarm, no bustle of orders, just dead and empty silence...

The mercenary backed away, holding onto the eerily quiet headset as he made his way back to where Beverly still tended to Harrison.  
"How's he doing?"

The yellow avian rubbed a hand against her forehead, and answered in a flat, matter-of-fact tone.  
"He's dead..."  
And she began packing up the first aid kit.

"Then there's not anything more we can do..."  
The terrier dropped Buckley's headset down, letting it clatter against the ground at his feet.  
"Maybe we ought tae bury him, and the others~"

The mustard yellow avian reassembled her composure from scratch and stood up suddenly, cutting Scott off. "There's no time."

"Ye alright, las?..."  
Scott watched her curiously for a moment as he retrieved his impact claymore and baldric, and replaced them on his back.

"We should leave, now."  
Without any more words, she hefted her pack back onto her shoulders and started on her way.

Scott remained a moment longer, taking one last look over the carnage scattered across the jungle clearing: four dead elite soldiers, and one dead eccentric scientist. He backed away from it all, confused, uncertain, and otherwise at a complete loss...

* * *

_The truth may be puzzling. It may take some work to grapple with. It may be counterintuitive. It may contradict deeply held prejudices. It may not be consonant with what we desperately want to be true. But our preferences do not determine what's true._

_We have a method, and that method helps us to reach not absolute truth, only asymptotic approaches to the truth – never there, just closer and closer, always finding vast new oceans of undiscovered possibilities... _

-Carl Sagan-


	2. Masters of Deception

**詐欺の達人**_**  
Masters of Deception  
**_

The elevator doors parted, and two intimate figures emerged into the modest hallway of an urban apartment block. They were a fairly young pair of raccoons, one a man and the other a woman, both with nearly matching fur-tones of clouded gray. The two navigated the through the empty corridor side-by-side, speaking quietly between each other.

"I think I can get us a part in Caldwell's new racket." he began.  
The man was a shifty wiry figure, wearing unassuming streetwear that wouldn't draw a second glance.

"That so? I thought they were full-up on that gig."  
She was a cool, calculating individual, dressed with similarly subtlety as her companion.

"Nagel got in an accident yesterday and landed himself in the hospital, which means the crew is now short a dedicated tech-jockey, plus I know they could really use an extra frontman to run some of the cons in their show..."  
He cut himself off when he spotted another figure exit a nearby room and make his way through the hall toward the pair. He was a cream colored horse, apparently the building custodian by the rough, slightly dirtied coverall he wore. As he passed, the equine janitor gave the pair a silent, polite nod, and continued on his way.

Once out of earshot, the two raccoons resumed their conversation.  
"That's great and all Rick, but..." She paused, turning her head down as she scratched the side of her head at the temple, "Just tell me you didn't do anything to encourage Nagel's 'accident'."

Rick smiled at her and shook his head, taking the other's hands in a display of reassurance.  
"No sis, of course not. You know I'd _never_ do something like that."

She closed in her brother, wrapping her arms around the other raccoon a in tender embrace and rested her head on one of his shoulders. Rick responded in kind, enveloping her within his own arms as he tilted his head down to speak into her ear with barely audible whisper.  
"Do you want to try a Red Herring?"

The sister answered with an almost undetectable nod, and two released each other from the embrace.

In a moment, Rick's breathing became a rapid succession of heaving gasps, and a look of absolute terror took over the raccoon's face. His limbs began to twitch and tremble, until his buckling knees gave out and he finally collapsed to the floor in a writhing fit of agony.

"Oh _shit_ no!..."  
She dropped down next to her convulsing brother and held him close, driven almost to hysteria by the sudden change.  
"Stay with me Rick," she managed, "we'll get you some help! "

The equine janitor had returned within seconds of the disturbance, and was standing just behind the sister with a look of determined concern chiseled into his features.  
"What's wrong?"

"I don't know." she answered, glancing over her shoulder at the newcomer, "He just started gasping and, twitching, and~"

"Okay, okay, let me take a look at him..."  
The cream colored horse steered her aside, and knelt down to examine the thrashing, incoherent figure sprawled out below him. But on his way down, the sister stood up and slipped a nimble hand into the custodian's partially unzipped coverall, and emerged holding a blaster handgun that'd been concealed there~

"Hey!"  
The 'janitor' noticed the pull, and tried to make his move on the pickpocket.

Instead, Rick shot his arms forward to grab the heavy fabric of the horse's coveralls, and swept the equine's legs out from under him during this crucial moment of distraction. With his opponent off balance and falling forward, Rick utilized the oncoming momentum to rotate the two of them around. After a brief swirl of motion and a dull _thud,_ the horse ended up on his back, and the raccoon ended up on top. Rick wrapped both arms tightly around the 'janitor' beneath him, using his knee to compress the ribcage against the floor.

The raccoon leaned forward from this dominant position, examining his pinned opponent with a sharp eye.  
"I'm gonna give you about... fifteen seconds to tell us exactly who you are and what you're doing here, starting now."

The bulkier equine had trouble filling his lungs, but managed to wheeze out a few words in response.  
"I'm not here... to cause trouble..."

"I don't know; this is an awfully hefty piece for someone who's not looking for trouble."  
The sister stood directly over the impostor, easily wielding the handgun she'd pulled from him.  
"What'd you think, bro: hitman?" she asked, cycling through the blaster's settings.

"He would've gone straight for the kill if he was going to whack us..."  
Rick shook his head and tightened his grip on the horse's chest, squeezing more air out of his labored lungs.  
"I figure this guy's intentions are somewhat less intense."

"You..." the equine sputtered, "You're Richard and Rachelle Cooney, aren't you?"

The sister – presumably Rachelle – gave the faux custodian an indifferent shrug as her answer.  
"Could be, but we still don't know a whole lot about _you_ yet."

"I think I'll go out on a limb here and say..."  
Rick paused a moment, and reached a hand down to pluck a minuscule comm-piece from the equine's ear.  
"..._spy_. But who for?"

The raccoon got a response in the form of another unknown voice from behind him in a dry, almost bored tone.  
"Bang."

Startled, the brother and sister instantly snapped their attention down the hall to the unexpected newcomer. He was as a rugged mid-aged hare with a dull brown fur tone, dressed in a heavy plaid patterned flannel shirt.  
"This is all starting to get a little ridiculous..."  
He gave a quick beckoning gesture toward the grounded horse.

"Who the~?"  
Rick was abruptly cut-off when the equine easily shoved him off his chest with a sweep of his arm, forcing the raccoon to scramble back to his feet while the horse returned to the newcomer's side.

The hare greeted the equine with a tired glance.  
"Saul, I need ten minutes alone with these fine folks, just ten."

The cream colored horse identified as Saul nodded at the hare's words and strode back toward the two raccoons, both of whom eyed the larger equine with a cocktail of suspicion, annoyance, and curiosity. Once within a foot or so, Saul held out his hand toward Rachelle in a firm, yet indifferent manner  
"If I was going to hurt you, I would have..."  
After a few tense moments, the sister relinquished the blaster handgun back to its owner.  
"Nice moves."  
The horse replaced his weapon inside the janitor's coverall, and silently walked down the hall away from the group.

The following silence persisted for a few awkward moments, until the mysterious older hare filled it up as he approached the leery Cooney siblings.  
"That was pretty slick what you pulled there, but from what I've been told about you I was expecting something a little more..." the hare scratched one of his ears as he paused a moment to consider "well, better."

"Better?" Rick replied, one eyebrow curiously raised.

"You made one fatal mistake: you got caught in situational tunnel-vision..."  
The hare stepped closer to Rick and picked the earpiece comm out of the raccoon's hand.  
"After you took down Saul, you assumed he was the one and only immediate threat, and focused your attention exclusively on him. That gave me the opportunity to sneak up and catch you off-guard, and in plain sight too. That sure as hell ain't good form."

"So did you just drop in to give us a surprise lesson in sneakery?" Rachelle snapped back, "Or was there some other reason for stalking us to our doorstep?"

The hare replied with a nod and easy smile.  
"As a matter of fact, I came by this way to hire your services..."  
In response, the two raccoon siblings simultaneously crossed their arms over their chests, each bearing a similar scowl of skepticism on their faces.  
"I know you're suspicious, and you've got every right to be."

"No, really?" Rick retorted, his words twisted in sarcasm.

"Okay then, I'll cut to the chase. I'm Lylat Central Intelligence, LCI, and this..." the hare mysterious pulled a thick stack of high denomination bills from a pocket, "is fifty-thousand credits in hard cash currency, plus another hundred-thousand if you finish the job."  
He held out the stack of banknotes to the Cooneys with a confident, cool-headed gleam in his beady eyes.  
"If you two don't want to get involved, now would the time to say so. I'll keep the money and be out of your fur in no time."

"Wait..."  
Rick stepped forward to the older hare, intrigued by the new prospect.  
"We should talk about this somewhere less conspicuous."

* * *

The door slid open into a small, sparingly furnished office that had seen many busy days. It wasn't the most lavish or luxurious workplace, but it was taken care of, and could function to the degree it was required to. The principle occupant of the office was an older, modestly dressed squirrel, his fiery red fur having faded to a dull tone with the years behind him...

The weary rodent was at the moment conversing over an audio/visual comm channel, using the computing terminal at his desk. The opening of his office door came in the middle of a sentence with his caller.  
"... you can still appeal the social workers' findings from the home study. The court will_ always_ have the final say on someone's adoption qualifications..." The squirrel paused and looked up from his terminal's display for a moment, acknowledging his guest. "I need to put you on hold for a minute."  
After inputing a few commands into his desk terminal, the rodent gave the newcomer his full attention, bearing the chiseled look of one who fully expects to hear bad news.

"James got away."  
The bearer of this bad news – a silken, honey-colored collie – carried herself with a composed conviction, for whom duty was the first priority.

"Again?"

The collie gave her colleague a short confirming nod.  
"He slipped out of his group during an outing at the history museum about twenty minutes ago. We don't have any idea where he is now."

The squirrel bent his head forward, scratching his forehead.  
"That's got to be the third time this week he's tried running off."

"Fourth, actually." the other corrected.

"Whatever..."  
He sat back in his chair and glanced up at the collie.  
"Look, just activate his locator tag and go get him. You don't need to bother me to do something so simple. I have someone on-hold that I need to get back to."

"I'm afraid the locator's not going to do a whole lot of good..."  
She dropped a bundle of drab, child-sized clothing on the squirrel's desk. The shirt bore a sewn-in nametag that read: '_James McCloud, Cornerian Foundling child welfare' _ and also included contact information for the organization.

A few surprised moments passed, and the older rodent looked up with a frustrated shake of his head.  
"That boy isn't running around the city naked, is he?"

* * *

It was a lot like the inside of a cathedral: large, expansive, open with a roof overhead, and pretty quiet for the most part. However, any sound made became exasperated, drawn-out, and was sent bouncing across the cold space in a string of nearly endless echoes. Strictly speaking though, it was actually a public hangar, jam-packed with as wide a variety of spacefaring vehicle as can be feasibly accommodated.

At one end of the cavernous facility stood a meager attendant's station, standing at its position next to the main exit out to the street. Inside was a scruffy green plumed avian, lounging behind a set of surveillance monitors and other such consoles, all near a window that opened to the hangar floor for customer access.

A synthesized chime alerted the avian attendant of a new arrival. One of the display screens showed an image from an exterior cameras, following the craft as it descended over the Corneria City skyline. It wasn't anything too remarkable, just a small Mercutio class courier – a simple spacecraft that could easily be housed in this public hangar facility. Once the registry cleared, the outer hangar doors automatically opened and allowed the incoming craft to enter in and settle down in a long row of other parked...

In this time, the attendant straightened up and looked the part as best he could, preparing himself for the customer's imminent arrival. It was some time before the noisy cacophony of the Mercutio's landing died down, allowing sound of someone's footsteps against the concrete to fill the otherwise silent hangar. The source revealed himself a few moments later – a youngish raccoon in a hooded sweatshirt.

"I came in on the old Mercutio, registry number 97520."

The attendant ran the number through one of the consoles, and turned up a match. 97520 held a valid monthly permit for a Mercutio, matching the one that just touched down, and didn't necessitate up-front payment for the landing. The picture of one the registry holders matched the figure here at the window – Richard Cooney.  
"Everything checks out, you're good to go."

"Actually, I found this on the ground on my way over here..."  
Rick handed a bank card through the window.

The avian took the thin plastic card, issued to a Scott Aberdeen, and searched the system. Sure enough, there was a registry file in the database that matched the bank card, and his spacecraft was indeed parked at this hangar.  
"Yeah, he's got a spot here." the attendant began with a nod, "In fact, I'm pretty sure I saw him come through about fifteen minutes ago."

"You don't say?" The raccoon responded with some curiosity

"The guy popped in for a couple hours to tinker with his ride, that beastly attack fighter over in row B..."  
The green plumed avian reached out the window and pointed toward a row of single-seat craft on one side of the hangar.  
"I'd sure hate to be the poor sap who ends up on the wrong side of dogfight against _him._"

"Do you know where he went?" Rick asked with some interest, "I might be able to get Scott's bank card back to him."

"Nah that's alright, you've done plenty already." The attendant responded with a polite wave of his hand and shake of his head. "I'll just hang on to it until he comes back. You have a nice day Mr. Cooney."

"You too."  
And with that, the raccoon backed away from the hangar attendant's station and headed for the exit. Rick took several carefully measured steps, waiting until he was out of reasonable earshot before making his next move.

After checking his surroundings, the raccoon took out his personal comm and began speaking without even dialing. He already had a channel linked up beforehand.  
"The 'lost-and-found' looks like went off without a hitch. You get our guy's contact info?"

"_Sure did." _Rachelle replied over the comm,_ "I'm connecting you now..."_

Rick took a deep, almost meditative breath as he listened and waited for the mark to respond. After a few seconds, a gruff voice answered his call over the comm.

"_Aberdeen."_

"Hello sir!" The raccoon replied instantly with fabricated enthusiasm, "I'm calling to tell you about a _fantastic_ new fur cleanser specially formulated for fur with a thicker, more robust texture, such as your own. Did you know that most regular one-size-fits-all shampoos and conditioners often can't fully cleanse and nourish~"

"_Blow off, ye damned leech." _the gruff voice cut him off, and closed his end of the channel.

"Tell me you got something out of that." Rick implored, back in his normal speech.

"_Playing-back the audio now... Sounds like he's in a bar, or restaurant, not too busy..."  
_The sister remained silent for a few moments. Some of the previous conversation could be heard bleeding across the channel._  
"It's not giving me a lot to work with. We might have to try something else."_

The brother shook his head as he continued on, nearing the exit to the city streets outside.  
"I don't want to risk hacking the telecomm networks if we don't need~"

"_Wait, I got him." _Rachelle interrupted,_ "You know where Ewan's Pub is?"_

"It's just around the block here..." Rick responded with a nod, "Quaint little joint if I remember right."  
The raccoon replaced his comm in a pocket as he came to the exit, and the sliding doors parted into the streets of downtown Corneria City...

The first sensation was the familiar din of a living metropolis – a noisy cocktail of countless people on the move from point A to B, using any and all necessary means. It was early in the afternoon by the looks of it, the streets and sidewalks here busy with the notorious tail-end of lunch hour. Men and women of a great variety of species were making themselves busy hustling through the ever-shifting sea of people in the urban canyon, with intermittent walls made of steel, glass, concrete and other materials used for buildings...

But there was a minor anomaly here – a young fox boy with a cinnamon brown fur-tone shuffled off the sidewalk and right past Rick into the hangar facility, apparently without an adult. He'd have to be someone else's problem though, so Rick dismissed the wayward vulpine child from his thoughts.

The clouded raccoon took a deep breath of vigorous city air, and slipped quite comfortably into the orderly chaos of the busy streets before him.


	3. Complications

**複雑化**_**  
Complications**_

Richard Cooney stepped through the front door of Ewan's to the sound of a pleasant automated chime, followed by a momentary lull in the pub's din of conversation and activity. A number of customers had paused to take notice of the raccoon's entrance, making mental notes to keep an eye on him. Cautiously, Rick continued in, keeping his demeanor as casual as he could, but with acknowledgement that he'd essentially entered foreign territory.

Ewan's could be considered a typical urban pub with its quaint, homely, yet distinctly informal atmosphere. It was clearly modeled after Gaedelic style public houses, and seemed well-suited to cater toward clientele from that community. Indeed, the patrons in showed a prominent abundance of wire-furred terrier type canids – a breed group practically ubiquitous to Corneria's Gaedelic populations.

Rick mentally sorted these many terriers as he made his way further through the pub, and soon spotted his mark among them. The black-furred figure of Scott Aberdeen sat alone at the bar with his back turned. He donned a set of casual yet rugged clothing, including a somewhat baggy pair of cargo pants and bulky work boots – possibly military surplus. The raccoon closed the distance, and planted himself on a barstool immediately to Scott's right.

"Welcome..."  
Rick was greeted almost instantly by a warm-faced mahogany terrier behind the bar who'd just stepped out of the kitchen with a plate with that smelled of rich meats and aromatic vegetables. It looked like some sort of stuffed pastry.  
"Can I get something started for ye?"

"I need another minute," the raccoon answered, "still deciding here."

"I'll leave ye to it then..."  
The mahogany terrier moved past Rick and set the plate down in front of Scott.  
"'Red Walled' pasty."

"Thanks."  
He accepted the dish briefly but politely, and began tearing at the flaky filled pastry with a fork.

Rick waited for the server to move out of easy earshot, then spoke only loud enough to be heard.  
"You're Scott Aberdeen?"

Though the dark terrier only gave Rick a fleeting glance, he still put the raccoon under tight scrutiny through his ears and peripheral vision.  
"And supposing I am?"

"I understand you've run into some trouble recently..."  
The raccoon slipped a card onto the bar surface, and passed it along toward Scott.  
"I sought you out on behalf of someone who aims to help you through your situation..."

The dark terrier picked up the card, which was about the size of a normal business card, and examined it closely. The card was entirely blank, save for a single phrase neatly handwritten in pen on the reverse side: _We know about Harrison. _Scott looked long and hard at the card, then up at Rick, finally making eye contact with the stranger through a strong pair of eyes smoldering with quiet flames.  
"That a fact?"

"Everything I've told you is true..." Cooney answered with a nod, pointing at the card in Scott's hand. "I also believe it's in your best interest that we discuss the details privately, and as soon as possible."

"I see..."  
The terrier gave a quiet nod as he stowed the card in a pocket, and motioned for the server as soon as he returned from the kitchen.  
"Could ye put this in a carry-out box?"

The food was boxed-up and paid for with minimal fuss, after which Scott led the raccoon out through Ewan's rear entrance. It wasn't a back door, but another actual entrance.

Instead of opening up to a bustling city street, this entrance came out at the end of a narrow pedestrian alleyway crammed with dozens of tiny, shanty style bars and clubs, but it was also eerily quiet. There was not a single person roaming the alley, and not one of the miniature establishments appeared open for business, at least not during these hours. In such a location dedicated almost exclusively to nightlife, the cacophony of a city during daylight was muted down to little more than a distant murmur behind the background.

Scott stopped a few steps ahead of the raccoon with his back still turned, and asked him a question over a shoulder.  
"This private enough for ye?"

Rick glanced up and down the thin alleyway, and gave an answer after his brief survey of the area.  
"It'll do."

"Good."

In an instant, Scott whipped around and flung his takeout box at the raccoon's head, splattering its contents of pastry, meat, and vegetable over his face. Rick didn't have time to clear the mess before a crushing blow to the gut knocked the wind out of him, leaving him writhing and gasping for breath. Only then did he feel a sharp point against his neck, and see the terrier's fist clenched around the handle of a sturdy multitool.

"What the hell?"  
Rick tried struggling for a moment, but stopped when Scott pressed the blade harder against his throat.

"Stow it," the terrier growled, eyes ablaze with tamed fury, "or I'll bleed ye out like slaughtered livestock..."

Nothing happened for several tense moments, or rather, very little happened. The alleyway's comparable stillness could betray even the slightest movements and subtle changes, where they might've otherwise been lost in the constant churning of busier locations. In fact, about ten meters back behind Scott, a quiet figure could be spotted slinking behind the cover of a nearby corner. Whoever it was certainly wasn't acting like an innocent bystander.

Scott may have had his eyes locked on the subdued raccoon, but his erect and alert ears showed he was far more aware of his surroundings than he cared to let on. The terrier easily noticed Rick's inquisitive stare over his shoulder, and gave him a knowing little smirk.

In another instant, Scott shoved the raccoon away from him and bolted toward the same corner in a bold, apparently reckless charge. In response, the silent newcomer stepped out from his cover armed with a silenced blaster handgun, ready to gun down the foolhardy terrier. Before he could fire though, Scott hurled his multitool straight at the would-be assassin's face, still surging relentlessly forward.

Now in full view, the assassin turned out to be a limber feline of slight build, with a typical gray-brown mottled 'tabby' fur pattern. He expertly caught Scott's streaking multitool in his off-hand, mere millimeters before being stuck in the face. The feline assailant wasn't given any time to maneuver, as Scott had already sprung on him with a flying knee aimed at the chest.

The cat stepped back, catching the knee on both forearms, and pushed it back toward the ground. Scott simply flowed with the momentum, following through to a downward-arcing elbow strike at his opponent's skull. The assassin stepped back again, and caught this blow too before the impact of it crushed him. He struck back this time, slashing at the terrier's forward forearm with the multitool's blade. Scott responded by twisting that arm around the knife blade as it slashed, flowing straight into an uppercut as his left hand went for the cat's pistol.

The assassin dodged left, and the terrier's rocketing fist missed his jaw by a hairsbreadth. But at the same time, Scott caught the cat's pistol-holding wrist, and reversed the missed uppercut into a downward elbow strike at his opponent's immobilized forearm. The force of the blow proved devastating, breaking the cat's arm with a resounding _snap,_ and forcing him to release his hold on the blaster. In one movement, Scott caught the weapon and swung it at his opponent's head, striking him in the temple to deliver a knockout blow.

Battered and bloodied, the assassin crumpled unconscious to the ground at the terrier's feet. Immediately afterward, a somewhat winded Scott armed and aimed the newfound pistol at his defeated opponent.  
"Figured ye might have backup. So how many more ye got?"

"He's not my backup." Rick answered, shaking his head.

"Think _very_ carefully now..."  
Scott pressed the suppressed handgun's muzzle against the motionless cat's head, and brought his blazing gaze to bear on the raccoon.  
"Are ye absolutely sure this hairball-hacking filth isn't one of yours?"

"You can blast his brains all over the alley for all I care!" Cooney snapped back, "I've never even met that chump!"

The terrier stepped away from his fallen would-be killer toward Rick, weapon raised and at the ready.  
"Then who in great blazing hell are _you?_"

"Someone who can–"

"_Name!_" Scott roared, jamming the muzzle of his pistol against the raccoon's forehead.

"_Richard Cooney!_"

Silence.

Other than a muffled background din from the surrounding city, the only sounds in the alley came from Rick, suddenly heaving in a succession of panting gasps in cold sweat. He wasn't so much afraid as much as surprised at the fact that he was afraid, and that his fear had compromised him.

"So, ye know about Harrison..."  
Scott lowered his weapon to reveal a stern, but no longer infuriated face.  
"Who sent ye? And answer me straight."

"Lylat Central Intelligence." Cooney answered, working to regain his calm composure, "I was hired by one of their agents by to find you, and lead you to a safehouse."

"That' a load of bloody shit that is," the terrier scoffed, "I'm not going anywhere with ye."

"You don't trust me."  
The raccoon's words were little more than a plain statement of fact.

"And for what reason should I?"

"Because there's a black bounty on you worth a small fortune, and the bounty hunters will not stop coming after you until they get it."  
Rick walked slowly past the feline assassin's unconscious form, slumped face-down on the paved alleyway.

"Let them come, I can handle 'em just fine as ye just saw..."  
Scott pointed out his would-be killer, almost boastfully.  
"He's not the first tae try cashing-in the price on me head."

"But I doubt he'll be the last, or the most dangerous." the raccoon began as he found traction in the situation, "How many more like him do you think you can fight off? How long do you think you can last constantly looking over your shoulder everyplace you go? Now let's say by some miracle you _do_ fight off each assassin and evade every hitman. It'd only be a matter of time before some sleazy lawyer gets paid to frame you for murdering Harrison, and then you'll have legitimate authorities on your ass..."  
Rick stepped over the cat's motionless body and advanced on Scott, challenging him.  
"Can you live the life of a complete fugitive?"

The dark terrier stood his ground, adamant.  
"I would rather live on me own running feet than suffer whatever horror that employer of yours will bring on me. Believe me, help is the _last_ thing Central Intelligence has in store for me. Ye don't know what I've seen, or what I've done. What lies were ye told?"

"Not much," the raccoon answered with a leisurely shrug, "but I suppose my contact may have lied when he said how tough you are, because all I see here is a spineless coward who's scared shitless by his own shadow."

Scott snapped the handgun under Rick's jaw as he glared through eyes reignited in fiery rage, and spoke in a smoldering growl of a voice to match.  
"Choose your next words with care, Richard: they may just be your last."

"I was told you had vital information, and that the Agency is willing to clean up your situation to get it from you; they _know_ you didn't kill Harrison..."  
The raccoon paused a moment, punctuating it with a disappointed sigh.  
"But if you're too a afraid to take the help where you–"

"I'm not afraid of some scheme-spinning whelp like _you!_" Scott thundered back, tightening his already firm grip on the weapon in his hand.

"It's not me you should be afraid of anyway..."  
Cooney met the terrier's blaze with a precise, steady gaze and firmly anchored certainty.  
"Go on, kill me. You'll have nowhere left to run or hide, you'll face more enemies than you can fight, and you'll find no allies willing to help you. You'll be even more alone than you are now."

"Ye don't know that."

"Are you prepared to bet your life on it?"

The two stared each other down, and silence once again overtook the deserted alley between their opposing ultimatums. The background clamor of city life gradually trickling into the inaudible void as the stillness stretched even further. Tension, along with silence, slowly dissipated away, until someone finally found the words.

"My issues aren't with your ilk..."  
Scott lowered the handgun and tucked it inside his belt, his hand far more steady than it was before. When he looked back up,  
"Let's get this over with."

* * *

The hangar facility's avian attendant sat back lazily at his station, counting the empty moments as they passed him by. The faint, familiar, and constant hum of the surrounding consoles and monitors in his workplace were all that kept him company. Very little had changed since the last customer passed through some time ago.

From outside his station, the attendant heard a soft, rapid patter of footsteps pass by from the entrance onto the hangar floor. When he peered out of the window to check on it, he found the sound had come from a small vulpine child as he sprinted past, alone.  
"What in the–"

The avian was cut off, shot squarely in the head from behind, and slumped forward.

* * *

Rachelle Cooney sat attentively behind a notebook style computer aboard the Mercutio courier craft she and her brother had brought in earlier, sporting a compact headset. The traveling spacecraft was sparsely accommodated, with its living amenities shrunken down to as small a scale as was reasonably feasible. Rachelle had set up her rig in the Mercutio's tiny control deck, barely large enough for pilot and copilot positions, watching a variety of monitoring windows on her notebook computer's screen.

Through one of these windows, she saw the hangar attendant gunned down through the distorted, wide-angle image on the display in front of her. The image came from a hidden camera Rick had planted earlier, used to obtain Scott's contact information, and was now serving as a means of surveillance. The attendant may be dead, or maybe not, depending on whether the shooter used a lethal or non-lethal shot.

"We got a situation here." Rachelle warned over the comm.

No response.

"Are you reading me?" she tried again.

The raccoon checked her monitoring instruments, and found that a full-spectrum jamming signal had overridden the comm channel. The jammer had even taken out the signal from the hidden camera, replacing the surveillance footage with a cracking image of white noise. Someone had rendered Rachelle and her rig blind, mute and deaf, but she wasn't about to let that get in the way.

Not wasting a single critical moment, Rachelle stood up and stepped away from her rig toward the exit. As she moved through the Mercutio's cramped , the raccoon scooped up a small sling bag and quickly checked its contents: handheld EM analyzer/direction finder, compact blaster handgun in a built-in holster, with both standard thermal and electron magazine cartridges, and attachable suppressor. There were a number of other useful items tucked into the bag, but these were the most crucial for the immediate issue.

Satisfied, Rachelle removed the EM analyzer and started it up, then zipped the satchel bag shut and slung it over her shoulder. The analyzer did pick up a few signals, dominated of course by the overpowering blast from the jamming signal. She got a bearing that pointed her toward the jamming source, and disembarked onto the hangar floor.

Rachelle had previously memorized the hangar's security camera layout and its many blind spots, including where she'd put the craft down. Following the jamming signal to its source was a simple matter of hopscotching through the blind zones and navigating between rows of dormant spacecraft, all while being on constant alert for any suspicious movement.

It wasn't long before Rachelle located the jamming transmitter: a collapsing portable rig designed to be concealed in a briefcase, set up near the hangar attendant's station. The raccoon ducked behind the cover of a nearby spacecraft's hull and assessed the situation. A green plumed avian – the attendant – lay some distance away; bound, gagged, stripped to his boxers, and apparently unconscious. Another, harsher looking avian figure with stark black and white plumage had changed into the attendant's uniform, and was now in his position. Some shifting shadows within the station suggested he had more backup with him.

It was an ambush, set for anyone entering the hangar, for Rick and Scott.

In a few seconds, Rachelle opened her sling bag, and placed the EM analyzer back inside, replacing it with the blaster handgun she had stored there. With a carefully practiced hand, the raccoon fitted the suppressor onto the weapon's muzzle, and loaded an electron magazine cartridge before arming the pistol. Once ready, she peered out from behind her cover, and took aim at the transmitter rig – finger light on the trigger as she lined up her shot...

Several shining electric blue shots lanced quietly at the rig, and disabling it in a torrent of sparks and overloading discharges. Almost immediately, Rachelle sunk back behind her cover, disassembled her handgun, and slipped it back into her sling bag. Just them, with the catastrophic failure of the jamming transmitter, her comm channel came back to life.

Rick's relieved, slightly frantic voice burst through the compact headset._  
"Rache! When the signal went out, I thought–"_

"I'm alright." Rachelle interrupted, "Some not-too-friendly looking folks set a jamming rig up here, but I took it out. Looks like they were trying to set an ambush..."  
Silent as a whisper, the raccoon slunk back through the crowded hangar, ducking from vehicle to vehicle.

"_Did you recognize any of them?"_

"Didn't take the time to look."  
Rachelle came to a stop at the end of the last row of parked spacecraft, straight against the hanger's side wall.  
"Where are you now?"

"_Just got out of the utility tunnels with Scott, and get through the door in about... thirty seconds, give or take..."  
_The door rick mentioned was utilities access, marked 'Authorized Personnel Only', about ten meters ahead of her position._  
"Are you clean, sis?"_

Out of nowhere, Rachelle felt the prod of a small, hard, metallic point against the small of her back. It might've been a knife, the muzzle of a firearm, or some ordinary object in a bluff, but it wasn't worth the risk.  
"I'm not being followed."

"So Rachelle, who're you talking to? That flaky brother of yours?"  
The voice behind her was male, familiar, and spoke in a casual, almost friendly timbre – a whisper just loud enough for the raccoon to hear.  
"Put it on mute before you answer, please."

Rachelle relaxed a tiny bit ash she muted her headset's microphone, stepping down from 'terrified' to 'annoyed' and 'frustrated'.  
"It's none of your business, Caldwell."

Caldwell, as it turned out, was the stark black-and-white bird of prey now dressed in the hangar attendant's uniform, distinguished by his mostly white head, with a harsh band of black across his keen golden eyes.  
"No, no no no." He removed the weapon from her back – a blaster handgun polished to a near-mirror finish – and held in out it a relaxed hand. "You made it my business the second you shot up my gear and freaked out my boys. For a second there I thought maybe the cops were on my ass or something. You can't even begin to imagine how relieved I am that it's just you..."  
The avian leaned in over Rachelle's back shoulder, nuzzling his sleek black beak against her cheek.  
"You doing a job here? No wonder you're so antsy and calling me by my last name; you must've thought I was somebody else."

The raccoon played along with Caldwell's flirtations, nestling her shoulders against his chest. But at the same time, she silently snaked a hand toward her sling bag.  
"Also, none of your business. I'll repay the damages–"

The restricted access door opened up, with Rick and Scott emerging through it soon after.

Rick saw the awkward scene before him, slapped himself the face, and dragged his hand down over his muzzle.  
"You _said_ you were clean..."

Rachelle responded with rolling eyes and a sigh.  
"I _said_ I wasn't being followed."

"Oh! So _you're_ after that bounty too!" Caldwell exclaimed, "Maybe we can all come to some sort of big happy mutually beneficial arrangement. Nobody has to get hurt here..."  
The avian pointed out the dark furred terrier next to Rick, who was glancing around the scene with a quizzical, somewhat confused look about him.  
"How about you hand over Scott, and I'll let you two have a cut of the bounty, minus the costs of my trashed tech, of course. The scruffy little bastard's worth quite a bit alive to the right people."

"What? After all the trouble we went through to grab him?"  
Rick stepped between Caldwell and the terrier, defiance in his every action.  
"How about we give _you_ a cut of the bounty instead?"

"Okay, I've tried being nice..."  
Caldwell wrapped one arm around Rachelle's neck in a choke hold, and pressed his mirror-finished handgun to her head. Yet his friendly demeanor was still there, even as he threatened his hostage's life.  
"Hand over Scott, and I won't blow your sweet sister's brains all over this hangar."

Rick flinched a moment as a look of terror flashed his clouded features, mirrored by his sister held hostage at gunpoint. In another moment, Rick's instance of panic shifted into a disgusted glare matched only by the grinding gears of his voice.  
"Fine, he's all yours..."  
He stepped aside, but there was no Scott to be found.

"So it's me ye want, eh?..."  
Scott's gruff voice came from atop a colossal attack fighter, easily twice the size of some of the smaller models parked nearby, and apparently with upscale armament to boot. Protruding from either end of the craft's wide, almost wing-like fuselage were the ends of twin gatling style rotary heavy blaster cannons.

"Well come and get me then, ye daftie wanker!"  
The terrier dropped into the cockpit of his attack fighter and closed the canopy over him. In a matter of seconds, the sleeping steel beast growled to life, filling the hangar with a heavy, thundering drone as its takeoff sequence initiated.

"What the–"

In this moment of confusion, Rachelle grabbed Caldwell's weapon and snapped its muzzle backward over her shoulder, loosing several blazing shots into the avian's right shoulder until his grip relented. Free of his grasp, she followed up with a rearward elbow into his head for good measure, and broke away in a sprint with Rick at her side.

As they dashed and weaved between the parked through the hangar, Caldwell's haggard, aggravated voice could be heard over the roaring racket of Scott's fightercraft.  
"Lock it down and light 'em up!"

"So, not quite according to plan." Rachelle commented, tossing Caldwell's handgun to her brother as she ran.

"Hit a few snags, tweak the plan, improvise..."  
After checking the newly received weapon, Rick took a look around in a brief survey of the area.  
"Uh-oh."

"How bad is it?"

"Missile launchers."

The two raccoons exchanged a worried glance, and picked up their pace across the hangar floor.

A few swift moments later, the Cooneys arrived back at their Mercutio courier craft, with its boarding ramp down waiting for them. Still traveling at blinding speed, they scrambled aboard and through the tight spacecraft into the control deck. Rachelle took to the pilot's seat and prepped the Mercutio for takeoff as fast as her flying fingers allowed. Simultaneously, Rick opened a comm channel from the copilot's position.

"Scott, we're gonna need an exit, and _fast._"  
Still surveying the hangar trough the cockpit window, Rick saw Scott hovering above the rest of the parked spacecraft in the attack fighter.

"_Way ahead of ye..."  
_He opened fire on the hangar doors with gatling cannons firing in 'volley' mode – all barrels at once.

The huge, sliding door couldn't take such punishment under the torrent of blaster-fire, and peeled open to the outside after only a few blasts from the attack fighter's weaponry. A missile streaked up from the hangar floor, detonating a few meters from the fightercraft after a near miss. Undeterred, Scott fired up the full force of his engines, blasting out of the hangar practically unscathed, with the Mercutio tailing right behind.

The two spacecraft emerged over the rapidly receding Corneria City skyline below, each making their respective shots spaceward before anyone else could take the time to notice. Even so, Rachelle still took the liberty of scrambling the Mercutio's transponder code, just in case. While she worked on that, Rick took another moment on the shipboard comm

"Okay Scott, we're transmitting coordinates and access codes to a private station..."  
He entered a few commands into the dashboard console as he spoke.  
"That's where we're meeting back up with our contact, and it's where we planned to take you."

"_I'll see ye there, for better or worse."  
_And the terrier cut out of the channel.

As soon as the Mercutio cleared the Cornerian atmosphere, and with no other complications, the tiny courier craft safely made the jump. Only then did Rick and Rachelle Cooney finally release the tightly wound tension gripping them for the past several hours. They didn't speak, but simply relaxed back in their respective pilot's and copilot's seats, listening to the gentle purr and background of the swiftly coasting spacecraft...

"Hold up..."  
Rick bolted upright, suddenly aware of something amiss.

The raccoon stood up from the copilot's position with the blaster stolen from Caldwell in-hand, and silently slipped out of the control deck. Rachelle looked on with concern, but did not interrupt. Rick continued through what little there was inside the Mercutio courier, eyeing every shadow, listening for any noise; alert for even the slightest anomaly...

And there it was: a voice, a muffled cough, from inside the sleeping cabin.

Cooney flattened his back against the wall near to the door, and reached toward the control panel, blaster ready. The door slid open with the push of a button, and Rick waited for the expected ambush, which didn't come. Somewhat peeved, Rick raised the handgun and sighted it past the door, ready to receive anyone exiting the room at gunpoint.

"I know you're in there. Now come out where I can see you."

"I _am_ out, dummy!" a defiant little voice snapped back, far closer than expected.

To Be Continued.


	4. A Long Story

**永い物語****  
**_**A **__**Long Story**_

"I know you're in there. Now come out where I can see you."

"I _am_ out, dummy!" a defiant little voice snapped back, far closer than expected.

Perplexed, Rick lowered the pistol, and saw a vaguely familiar vulpine child standing directly in front of him with his arms crossed over his chest – he must've slipped there below the line of sight. The cinnamon brown fox boy regarded Cooney with a kind of grumpy disgust, scowling at him through a pair of sharp steel blue eyes, challenging the raccoon.

"You," Rick began as he slipped the handgun into the back of his belt, "What in Lylat are you doing here? You could've been hurt, killed, or even worse..."  
He released a long, drawn-out sigh as he furrowed across his forehead, partly relieved, partly aggravated.  
"Your parents are gonna be worried _sick_ about you."

"No, I don't think so." The boy replied with an indifferent shake of his head.

Rick stopped a moment, and took a longer harder look at this curious child. He couldn't have been more than six or seven years old, but there he was, standing up against an adult with no discernible trace of fear. It would've been easy to simply label him 'brat', yet it was clear the little vulpine boy possessed not necessarily wisdom, but certainly cunning beyond his age. There were several possible backstories that could've produced such a mentality so young – few of them pleasant...

After several seconds under Rick's keen scrutiny, the child glared back, an offended grimace contorting his features.  
"What?"

The raccoon cocked an eyebrow, noticing something odd about the boy's clothes. They were clean – near spotless, and with few wrinkles at all.  
"Say, are those new?..."  
He reached down and plucked a pricetag from the back of the child's t-shirt.  
"Hmm, _very_ new I think. So does this mean you buy your own clothes, or did you steal them?"

"Why do you care?" the vulpine child snapped back.

"You're running away from someone, or something, and you changed your clothes to do it." Rick stated in a firmer, more direct tone, "Why? Who are you running from?"

"What are _you_ running from?"

"It's a long story that you really don't want to hear..."  
Though the child's question was asked out of spite, it made Cooney stop a moment; who _was_ he running from?  
"Besides, I asked you first."

"Long story," the boy scoffed, "you don't wanna hear it."

"Alright." Rick began with a frustrated sigh, "I can't force you to tell the truth if you don't want to talk about it, but you could at _least_ tell me your name. I'm Rick..."

The raccoon held out his open hand, but the little cinnamon brown fox did not return the gesture, choosing instead to respond with silent, sour pouting.

Rick rolled his eyes and turned away, heading for the spacecraft's tiny kitchenette area opposite the sleeping cabin.  
"If you don't give me a name, I'm gonna have to make one up for you..."

Cooney listened carefully; the kid followed, but was keeping a distance

"You know, maybe I'll just call you _Fox..._"  
He eyed the vulpine child over his shoulder, an amused smirk drawn across his cloudy features.  
"How about that, _Fox?_"

The boy stood his ground, hands firmly braced against his hips as he glared up at Rick.  
"That's a stupid name!"

The raccoon shrugged and turned forward, going back into the kitchenette area.  
"It's not any stupider than _Guy_–"

"My name is _James,_" he interrupted.

"_Now_ we're getting somewhere, James..."  
Rick opened a small refrigerator and began rummaging through it  
"You thirsty? All we've got here is water and–"

It was subtle, but the raccoon felt a small slip upward against the small of his back – the blaster. In an instant, Rick shot a hand behind his back and caught hold of the child's wrist, pressing it against his own back to prevent the handgun from finding a dangerous line-of-fire.

"Hands off!" the raccoon snarled, his words grinding against each other like misaligned gears, "or, so help me, I will twist your arm until it _breaks..._"  
He didn't see Jame's surprised face behind him, but felt the child's grip on the weapon remain firm. Slowly, and with mechanical steadiness, Rick began torquing the child's arm in his grasp.

After a few moments under this pressure, Jame's loosened his hold on the handgun, and Rick loosened his hold on James. With the blaster safely in his control, the raccoon turned around, and found the fox child wringing his wrist, steely eyes downcast in a pained grimace.

"So, James..." Rick began as he ejected the blaster's magazine cartridge, and pocketed it, "After shooting me in the back, what _exactly_ were you planning to do next?"

The vulpine boy looked nervously up at Cooney, cringing away slightly and at a loss for words. For the first time since Rick had seen him, James was showing more than a few telltale signs of anxiety, a vulnerability, and fear.

"I see you found the stowaway." A calm female voice commented.

"Who is she?" the boy asked cautiously, his wavering gaze shifting past Rick.

"That would be my sister, Rachelle..."  
Rick peered behind over his shoulder, and found Rachelle leaning casually against the doorway that led into the Mercutio's cockpit, apparently amused by her brother's situation.  
"How long have you been skulking over there?"

"I just got here." she answered easily, "Sounded like you might've been in some trouble, and from a little kid no less."

"There's no trouble..." Rick retorted, returning his attention to James, "He's just being a tricky little rascal is all."

"And the arm breaking?" Rachelle asked with a twinge of suspicion.

"He went for the _gun!_" Rick shot back, presenting the handgun in question for all to see, "The little brat was _this _close to blasting a hole in me..."  
The raccoon sent a bitter glare down at James, who'd remained comparatively passive throughout the exchange.  
"He's lucky a broken arm was the only thing I threatened him with."

"He, Rick, relax. You're not dead, the kid's arm isn't broken, and the only one here making a scene is it go..."  
Rachelle shifted through the cramped cabin next to her tense brother, and placed a relaxed hand on his shoulder, speaking with a calm control to match.  
"We've all been through a rough day; it's not like you have to interrogate the poor kid right this second."

"Fine, fine. We should be coming up on our stop anyway. Keep your eyes on him though..."  
Rick broke away from his sister and young vulpine stowaway as he left for the Mercutio's cockpit.  
"And his name is James."

Once sealed in the spacecraft's tight control deck, the raccoon sat down and made himself comfortable in the pilot's chair. It was silent in there for the most part, except for the constant whir of consoles and instruments. The views outside the main forward window weren't exactly thrilling either: just a whole lot of black nothing – the Mercutio may as well not have been moving at all. A long-winded scientist might babble endlessly about the wonders of traveling through hyperspace, subspace, slipspace, warp, or any number of other colloquialisms depending on who was asked; or an engineer would more than likely warn about how complicated the whole process could be – how one little mistake could completely screw things up. For the layman though, it was generally a dull and droll subject, mostly...

A flashing light and chime from the dashboard console interrupted he momentary doldrum in the cockpit, informing of the imminent shift back into ordinary space.  
ETA 00:00:05... 4... 3... 2... 1... 0

The stars all snapped into position on the black backdrop as the Mercutio dropped out, as if all existence were little more a great big sheet of stretched out rubber, and just now contracted back to its normal state. Relativistic illusion of course, crated by phase-shifting or some other guff. There wasn't even a perceptible jolt of deceleration, since the spacecraft didn't technically change its velocity.

The Mercutio had come out near a space station, just as expected. It was still in Corneria's orbit, but the planet itself was little more than a small, pale blue crescent against the vast, star-speckled background of space. The spacecraft's autopilot systems were already guiding itself toward the station...

In a few moments, a message was transmitted to the spacecraft; an A/V comm of a robotic attendant. The android's features were smooth, and rounded, with a shining silver-like finish to its metallic plating.  
"You are entering the spacial territory of Château de l'Étoiles, private property of the Phoenix estate. If you do not have business, then you are trespassing and shall be reprimanded accordingly. This is your only warning."

The station gradually became larger in the as the Mercutio approached in an ever tightening spiral, and its elegant, industrialist architecture became more apparent with every closing meter. For a civilian station, Château de l'Étoiles was heavily armed; its visible weapon systems alone rivaled most fortified military posts, and could probably hold off all but the most formidable attack forces by itself.

Instead of responding to the robot verbally, Rick simply transmitted the necessary access code through the comm channel, and waited...

After a few eerily silent moments, the shining robot responded in a courtly, yet mechanical voice.  
"Your code is valid, the guest hangar shall be open to you. Please enter promptly..."  
One of the large, heavy doors on the station slid apart on sliding tracks, opening onto a hangar deck.  
"Enjoy your stay, sir."  
And with that, the robot closed the channel, leaving both the hangar door and invitation open to Cooney.

The final approach went smoothly, and the Mercutio made its way easily through the containment field and into the spacious guest hanger of Château de l'Étoiles. However, the space was already occupied by two spacecraft: one was Scott's bulky attack fighter, the other was a vehicle not unlike the Mercutio, but a sleeker, higher-end model...

The massive hangar doors slid smoothly shut behind the Cooney's tiny courier, which touched down on an open stretch of deck along soon after. In another few moments, as the Mercutio settled into its parking position, the spacecraft's boarding ramp dropped open, allowing Richard and Rachelle Cooney to disembark, along with their small vulpine stowaway.

"I see you two made it; not too much trouble I hope."  
Saul was already there in the hangar, waiting for them. He dressed to match his semi-formal surroundings: slacks and short sleeved button-down shirt, the latter with a tasteful geometric pattern printed into the fabric.

"Where's Scott?" Rick asked, stepping up to the cream-colored horse.

"You just missed him..."  
The equine agent turned quickly, and began leading the new arrivals toward the hangar bay's entrance some distance away.  
"I can't even begin to tell you how much we appreciate you doing that for us. Any longer and we might've had to bring Scott in with a 'tag-and-bag' op, which–"

"Actually, Saul, we're in kind of an awkward bind right now."  
Once she got the horse's attention, Rachelle pointed out the young, cinnamon brown fox tailing behind.

"Huh..."  
Saul looked the boy over with a brief, quizzical stare, and thought fast. He arrived at a decision within a moment, and altered his course to lead the group not out of the hangar bay, but instead toward the other sleek, spacecraft that Saul must've arrived in.  
"Come this way, tell me all about it, and we'll see if we can't get this kink sorted out."

* * *

A dull brown, mid-aged hare sat waiting in a room that, for lack of a more precise term, could be called a study. It was laid out as an office with a desk-and-chairs setup, walls lined with sealed shelving units that contained scores of hard documents, and some detailed models of state-of-the-art spacecraft. There was also a cozy lounge area, situated in front of a wall-sized observation window overlooking the distant but still visible planet of Corneria, tinted to cut the glare from the Sun and its tiny dwarf companion of Solar.

The study's main door slid open, and a scruffy black terrier was politely shown into the room by a polished robotic attendant. The robot excused itself as soon as Scott was inside, leaving him alone with the cryptic hare.

It's a little tricky to determine a terrier's exact age from appearance alone. Between the ages of denying a cracking voice and denying the first gray flecks of fur, they don't seem to age at all. Luckily, the dossier for Scott Edmond Aberdeen had his age pinned down at 24 years old, despite his tendencies to act older at times.

"Swanky place..." Scott commented, letting his eyes wander across the architecture. "Ye sure that Phoenix bloke doesn't mind us being here?"

The hare answered from the comfort of a tasteful armchair as he looked out through the observation window.  
"He lets me use this station as a safehouse every now and then when he's not around, but not too often."

The terrier crossed over to the lounge area, scrutinizing his host every second.  
"Good chums, are ye?"

The hare turned to Aberdeen, meeting his prying gaze with a friendly invitation to sit.  
"Owen Phoenix owes me a few favors – I'll leave it at that."

"Right..." Scott replied, sitting down in a similar armchair across from the nameless hare, "So what am I supposed tae call ye?"

"Peter Cotton, but you can just call me Pete."

"Is that a _real_ name, or a _cover_ name?"

"At this point, the fact that you know I'm an agent of LCI kind of makes moot of whether or not I choose to use my given name. If it makes you feel any better though, 'Peter Cotton' is the name I use the most–" Pete stopped himself for a moment, seeing his guest's hard, flinty demeanor, and remarked, "You don't trust me."

"And why should I?" Scott blurted with suspicion.

"You shouldn't." the hare answered, "But then, why should _I_ have any business trusting _you?_"

"Eh?"

Pete produced a file containing a hard copy of Scott's dossier, and briefly leafed trough it during his lengthy response.  
"My sources are a little inconsistent and incomplete, but they seem to imply you had some major involvement with the Gaedelic Liberation Army and related subgroups during your teens, and later as an elite paramilitary commando in the final years of bloody civil conflict known mostly as 'The Troubles'. At least that was until the Aranburgh agreement a couple years back. Work can be awfully hard to come by for a skilled freedom fighter following a permanent ceasefire – that's around the time your freelance career began, isn't it?"

"Ye cannae prove anything!" Scott snapped, jolting forward with eyes aflame, "An honest merc is what I am, and that's all there is tae it."

"In my experience, I've found the lives of mercenaries are seldom honest."

"If ye even so much as _attempt_ usin' something o' that sort as leverage against me, ye'll find yerself crackin' open a great Pandora's Box worth o' trouble."

"Yeah, I know..."  
The cool-headed hare nodded, and closed the file as he placed it on the end-table next to him.  
"It could instantly shatter the delicate peace for which your proud Cornerian home nation of Gaedel has worked so hard over the years. Lucky for us all that I know better."

"Then why'd ye even bring it up?" the terrier asked with a puzzled eyebrow cocked.

"Because I need you to know that I really don't give two shits about your background or what you might've done, and that I have no intention of making your life any more difficult than it already is. I could've roped you in through the police, or sent someone to kidnap you, or even made you an offer you couldn't refuse. Believe it or not Scott, there _is_ a reason I went through so much trouble to have you come here by your own choice. Folks with skills and talents like yours are far better to have as trusted allies than as enemies, or trustless lackeys; I simply cannot afford to be at odds with you."

Scott was leaning forward on the edge of his seat, listening intently to Pete's spiel.  
"Ye aren't quite what I was expecting."

"Watched some of those cheesy spy-flics, have you?"

The terrier shook his head.  
"I had a rotten experience with your lot not too long ago."

Peter Cotton gave his guest a few quiet, knowing moments of silence, all too aware of what he meant by 'rotten experience'. When he spoke again, it was with the solemn reverence of harsh experience.  
"The agent who was sent to retrieve Harrison acted like an arrogant _idiot _with complete disregard for the dangers he was facing, and blundered into that situation swinging his brass balls like a damned _pendulum_. Not too surprisingly, that attitude got himself and the Agency kicked up in there pretty good..."  
He paused for a breath, and exhaled it as a joyless, disappointed sigh before carrying on.  
"It's fuck-ups like those that are prime examples of what happens if there's friction between folks when something needs doing and the stakes are high. You were there – Harrison was never supposed to have died that day – and that's why you're here."

"Eh..." Scott stalled a second, glancing awkwardly away from the hare, "I'm here 'cause that Richard fellow ye sent after me said ye'd clean up me situation."

"The bounty."

The terrier nodded.  
"That's right."

"Well..." Pete began with a thoughtful scratch of his chin, "Some big-shot of the criminal underground has convinced himself beyond any shadow of a doubt that you assassinated Harrison, and he wants to know who hired you. You have to understand now, Dr. Arno Harrison and his unique research represented millions in investments from a wide variety of interested parties; less-than-lawful included. Now that he's gone, these pissed-off investors want to know who's responsible for screwing them over so they pay back that son-of-a-bitch in kind."

"But I didn't do anything of the sort." Scott pointed out as he squirmed with an uncomfortable shrug.

"Yes, true, but they don't know any better. That colorful cast of characters in the cross-system criminal circles boasts some of the most selfish, psychotic, egotistical divas in all Lylat; plus they're armed and dangerous. One of these divas happens to be the pain-in-the-ass who posted that bounty on you. We know who he is and frankly, he's starting to be a problem, even among his own..."  
The hare paused, giving Scott a keen-eyed look that could only suggest one single thing.  
"Would you like to do the honors?"

"Of plucking this thorn-of-a-bloke from everyone's sides?" the terrier supplied.

Pete nodded in certain agreement.  
"Take him out, and that pesky bounty dies with him. You just might even reap additional rewards for it."

"Well that's bloody brilliant!" Scott exclaimed with a slap of his knee.

"Other than that, I can't really offer you anything 'official', but being on good terms with an agent of LCI will go a long, long way; and it's not likely to paint a target on your back either..."  
The hare leaned forward toward his guest, folding his hands into themselves in preparation.  
"But before we get into that, I need your help."

"How's that?"

"Simple..."  
Pete produced a digital audio recorder from a pocket, and placed it on the coffee table in front him just before activating it.  
"From your point of view, tell me _exactly_ what happened over the course of your job on Sauria. Be as specific as possible, and try not to leave anything out, not even the most minor details."

"No..." the terrier stated flatly with a shake of his head, "I kill that diva first, clear the bounty off me, _then_ I'll talk."

"So, you still don't trust me."

"Ye cannae do the things I've done without knowing where ye're liable tae be screwed for it..."  
Scott sat back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest.  
"If ye want what I know: those are the terms. Take it or leave it."

The hare and the terrier spent several tense moments in utter silence, without much else to fill it. Each stared the other in the eye, waiting for someone to make their next move.

With careful control, Pete reached down to the coffee table and deactivated the digital recorder. Then he looked back up to Scott with a grim, stone-solid gaze, and cut it with a quick smirk and a chuckle...  
"Smart move."

* * *

Saul, Rick, Rachelle, and James were all aboard a slightly-less-cramped spacecraft huddled around an advanced model of computing console, with the horse at the controls. The console's display was open to a window displaying the Corneria City Police Department's database of missing persons.

"Here we go..."  
The equine agent brought up a page with a face and information that matched the little vulpine boy standing right next to him.  
"His name is 'James McCloud' and, whoa..."

"What?" Rick asked, leaning in to get a better look.

"The kid's an orphan..." Saul answered, "He's part of a child welfare agency – the Corerian Foundling."

Rachelle moved in, mirroring her brother's position so the two raccoons were on either side of Saul.  
"So what the heck are we supposed to do about that?"

"The 'right' thing to do here would be to call the police and turn him in, but I've got another idea..."  
The cream-colored horse began a flurry of commands into the console, until he opened a comm channel.

"Saul?" Rick questioned.

"Saul, what are you doing?" Rachelle followed up.

"_You've reached the Cornerian Foundling: Corneria City, Ueno Prefecture branch..."_  
The one whose face appeared over the A/V comm was an older, modestly dressed squirrel with faded red fur. He carried himself as an official, but with the tired strain of stress tugging at his form.  
_"This is branch manager Dale Fitzgibbons speaking, how may I help you?"_

"Hi, I'm Saul Eckelson speaking on behalf of my associates, Richard and Rachelle Cooney..."  
He pointed out the two raccoons over either of his shoulders, maintaining a cheery yet confident disposition throughout.  
"These two know the whereabouts of a child in the Foundling's charge by the name of James McCloud, who you claim went missing recently. Here they are."

Saul moved out of his position, leaving the Cooney's to deal with the anxiety-stricken squirrel.  
_"So..."_ Dale began, _"What's happened to James?"_

"The little punk's right here..."  
Rick and Rachelle maneuvered the cinnamon brown fox in between them, clearly visible to the camera so Dale could see him.

"_Oh... well... that's a relief."_

"You don't seem too thrilled." Rachelle commented.

"_Oh, no! I'm happy he's alright but..."_  
The squirrel stopped a second to gather himself before trying again.  
_"It's not that I don't want him here, I will take him back if there are no better options, but I'd really much rather James be somebody else's responsibility."_

"Sounds to me like you don't really want him back." Rick observed.

"_Before you pass judgment on me as a heartless wretch, hear me out..."_  
In an instant, Dale Fitzgibbons took on a solid, more sincere stance to answer the Cooneys' prodding questions.  
_"As noble as the Cornerian Foundling and its mission is, we are a poor substitute for parents, even foster parents. James is growing up fast; he _needs_ guidance, he _needs_ a family to support him, and this institution simply can't give that to him. The Foundling was never meant to raise children, only to see them into good homes."_

"Why haven't you seen this kid to a good home yet?" Rachelle inquired, laying a hand across the boy's shoulder.

"_Don't you think we've _tried?_" _the squirrel gawked back, irritated,_ "We've been sending James out to foster homes for _years_, but he's been sent back to us every single time – 'too much of a handful' we're often told, and with good reason it seems."_

"So what about his birth family?" Rick chimed in, "Where are the McClouds?"

"_The name 'McCloud' is nothing more than an arbitrary placeholder..."  
_Dale paused, taking an exasperated breath as he prepared for his explanation. _  
"James has been with us all his life, ever since he was dropped off here anonymously and entrusted into the care of the Foundling. Given ample time and resources, we might be able to cross-reference Jame's biometrics across databases for possible matches. Even then, Jame's biological parents may very well be in no shape to raise him. If only someone had the courage to..."_ he trailed off.

"Come again?" Rachelle asked, scrutinizing the rodent.

"_My apologies, didn't mean to go on and on like that..."  
_The red squirrel quickly composed himself, trying hard to bury his sudden fluster and return to his dry, official state._  
"Thank you both very much for finding James, we'll be happy to take him back in as soon as you can return."_

"I'm not going back there."  
James spoke up for the first time in a while, bouncing his worried gaze between both Rick and Rachelle as he searched for support.

"Sorry kid, but I think you are."

"I'm not going back!" the little fox shouted, adamant, and on the verge of breaking down into a tantrum. "It's cramped, everyone there is stupid, and the food sucks. You can't make me go back, I'll just run away again!"

"_He does have a point..." _the rodent pointed out with a solemn nod and -ed sigh,_ "That's our dilemma in a nutshell, you see: James doesn't want to be here, we'd like him to be somewhere else, and there isn't anyone willing to take him in."_

"Well that's just terrible..."  
Rachelle ran an affectionate hand over the fox's head and between his ears.  
"Something ought to be done."

James practically jumped into Rachelle as he clasped his arms around her in a tight hug.  
"How about I stay with you?"

"No way," Rick said to the child, with some alarm, "Not gonna happen, not with the lifestyle we live. You'd hate it."

"No I won't." James sauced back, shaking his head.

"Besides, we'd never make it past the social workers–"

"_Actually..."_ the squirrel interrupted,_ "Given the unique circumstances in Jame's case, I believe I can be somewhat lenient in my assessment. You two seem like a pair of intelligent, competent individuals..."_  
Dale paused for a few moments, pasting a hopeful wide-eyed stare on his face while he waited for a response, but didn't get one.  
_"For goodness sake, give the boy a chance to live a _life_ for once. What've you got to lose? If it doesn't work out, he can be returned into the Foundling's custody same as countless other foster caregivers before you."_

"I... We..."  
Rick gestured vaguely around the cabin; to Saul, to the screen, to his sister and the little fox clinging to her, unable to find the words to keep fighting a losing battle.

"Rick," Rachelle whispered into her brother's ear, "Don't forget we just made _bank_ on this job – more than enough to cover the costs. Let's do some good with it."

And that was the coup de grâce, when Rick finally relinquished with a groaning sigh and rolling eyes.  
"Okay, we'll give it a shot, but no promises."

"_Excellent!" _the squirrel exclaimed in a satisfied hoot,_ "I'll have you here in my office at the earliest possible convenience so we may discuss your affairs. Good day."  
_The channel closed.

Rick reared back dragging a hand down his forehead, either from exhaustion, aggravation, or both.  
"How did we get roped into this?"

"_There_ y'all are–"  
The voice was Pete's as he just stepped aboard the spacecraft, but stopped short when he spotted James among the group.  
"Okay, now whose kid is that?"

"Um..." Rachelle stepped forward to answer, the fox still sticking close, "Ours, I guess."

"Since _when?_" the hare asked, flabbergasted by Cooney's answer.

"Since a few seconds ago, I'd say." Saul answered with a slight scoff.

"It's kind-of a long story..."  
Rick stood alongside his sister, and behind James McCloud.  
"You wanna hear it?"

* * *

Author Note:

I plan to take a break after this chapter, so I can get my academics all sorted out, and also because I don't have any immediate ideas to build the next chapters from just yet. I hope you'll bear with me until then, and thank you.

As always, your feedback is most welcome.


	5. Someone Else's Battle

**誰か他の人の戦い**_**  
Somebody Else's Battle**_

Downtown Corneria City...

The city doesn't settle down after dark, when the warmth and brightness of the sun fades away. On the contrary, the city comes alive with a restless furor in spite of it. Every evening, the city drowns silence in a flood of sound, obliterates darkness with a dazzling array of light, and holds back the dead night with the immortal cacophony of life. A constant, pervasive whir and rush of vehicle traffic, hundreds of conversations between hundreds more speakers, a hodgepodge cocktail of music that constantly shifts with its sources, bathed in a brilliant spectacle of countless artificial lights –all of these things are simply taken for granted.

Within this busy urban commotion, a sleek silver luxury scycar swooped down from one of the overhead traffic lanes to street-level, coming to a stop outside the front facade of a conspicuously dormant building among a dozen others along the street.

The rear passenger-side door of the sleek silver luxury scycar opened, and a medium sized felid dressed in an elegant, clean-cut suit emerged from the vehicle. By his distinct tufted ears and longer fringe along the jawline, he was definitely a lynx, and a somewhat aged one by his dulled fur tones.

"Drive around and look busy," he instructed to the scycar's unseen driver, "but be back here in exactly thirty minutes."

After closing the door, the lynx stepped away toward the dormant building as his scycar departed behind him.

The building itself was fenced off at the sidewalk by several construction barriers, all plastered with signs that read: _Argo Tower: future home of Argus Investments Ltd._. The building appeared partially complete: while most of the lower floors were encased in the finished reflective glass curtain wall, the upper half still left the concrete and steel structural components bare and exposed. Several idle cranes, scaffolds, and other such construction equipment sat perched onto several locations around the the tower, forced to huddle close against the unfinished Argo Tower, confined within the narrow spaces between so many crowded buildings...

The dapper felid came to a locked gate in the construction barriers, where he entered the access code and passed through, leaving the throng of the city streets behind. At the base, Argo Tower almost looked like a complete building, but the utilities still weren't operational yet. That meant no power for doors, lights, HVAC systems, integrated IT networks, or even elevators; it was still a lifeless, unfinished shell of a building. That being the case, the lynx made his way instead toward a temporary external lift, built into the construction scaffolding attached to one side of the building...

The journey upward was uneventful, but tense. The spartan construction lift was built like a cage, leaving its occupants exposed to the elements outside. With each rising meter, the ruckus from the streets below gradually died away to a distant whisper, replaced by howling gusts of frigid wind, which made the anxious feline wish he'd brought a coat...

The lift came to a stop about two-thirds up the tower, where there weren't any finished surfaces of any kind. The floors, walls and ceiling were nothing but bare concrete. The space was occupied mainly by a loose collection of equipment that the lynx didn't care to identify, with several lines of power cable snaking across the barren floor. Further along the bare space was a small, but bright pool of light from one of the work-lights scattered around. It lit a wide table covered in a layer of printed architectural schematics, where a lone figure sitting silently at one side with his back to the lynx. He was a diminutive gray-green lizard, bundled up in a warm jacket against surrounding cold...

"Okay Craig," the lynx began as he stepped into the light, "What's the story on these 'special changes'?"

Craig gave no response of any kind, and remained still as a statue.

"Craig?..."  
Standing behind the lizard, the feline placed a hand on Craig's shoulder, only to see him slump forward onto the architectural printouts, unconscious.

The lynx stepped back, heart racing and eyes darting around the cold, lifeless expanse that surrounded him. After a few moments, he extracted his hand-comm from a pocket and attempted to make a call, only to find there was no signal. Unbeknownst to him, a third figure glided silently from the darkness.

"Do ye know who I am?"

The feline whipped around at the source of the voice. It was a shorter, black furred terrier in an even blacker set of combat fatigues. Between the dark color of his fur and outfit, Scott Aberdeen practically melted into the shadows, visible now only because he chose to be seen.

"You have got a _ton_ of shit to answer for, you know that?" the lynx said as he took a step backed, turning slightly to one side.

"Don't try it." Scott stated with a quick shake of his head.

"Try what?"

In an instant, the older lynx whipped his hidden hand forward, now clasping the grip of a small blaster, and fired a single shot squarely into the intruder's chest. The shot did nothing. The shadowy terrier didn't so much as flinch, and the dark combat suit showed no signs of a blaster shot: no singing, no melted synthetics; as if the blaster hadn't even discharged, but it _did_ discharge.

"That..." Scott answered flatly, circling around the baffled feline, "Yer piece was loaded with a blank mag-charge this morning, the comm's been scrambled, and the architect here should be coming around in about an hour..."  
The terrier patted Craig's limp form on the back as he passed the table.  
"It's just you and I up here now."

The lynx simply stood there, awkwardly fidgeting with the neutered firearm while his gaze followed Scott.  
"So you whacked Harrison and now you're gonna whack me, is that it?"

"Ye wanted me..."  
The terrier lifted his impact-claymore out of the weapon-harness strapped to his back, bringing the blade to bear on the formally-dressed feline.  
"Well now ye've got me."

"A sword, huh?" he began, "That's an odd weapon for a hitman."

"I have me reasons."

The lynx gave a shrug, and replaced the blaster in its concealed holster.  
"I guess its a better way to go than the other methods, like poison. It's more dignified this way–"

He was cut-off when Scott advanced, clutching the feline by his lapel in one hand, while using the other to jam the sword's blade against his throat.  
"Why'd ye plaster a damn bounty tae me head?"

"Isn't it obvious?" the older lynx sniped back, "You're an assassin: a two-bit schmuck who kills for pay, and I needed to know which asshole hired you to knock-off Harrison. A big fat price one your head is simply the easiest and surest way to flush out scum like you."

"Ye could've asked."

"Like you're _really_ gonna give me a straight answer if I just up and _ask _you?" The feline burst out laughing, despite the blade against his neck, "Yeah right! Do I look _that_ stupid to you?"

"I did'nae kill him!" Scott snarled back, putting more pressure on the blade, "Harrison hired _me!_"

"I suppose I won't ever know the truth now."

"I just _told_ ye the truth."

"I'll bet you did..."  
The older lynx let out a disappointed sigh.  
"It's a damn shame. I could've made something out of Harrison's wide-eyed shenanigans, if it wasn't for you that is."

"What was Harrison doing?" the terrier asked, easing the pressure both of his word and his words, "What do ye know about it?"

"Nothing..." the feline replied with a shaking head, "I'm just the bankroll –the money handler– I don't know anything about all that pseudoscientific schmutz–"

"I was _there!_" Scott roared, shoving the other back a step, "I saw things happening that only happen in cheap fantasy stories! Don't ye try and tell me ye didn't know anything about it!"

"Opened your eyes, did he?..."  
The older lynx looked somewhere passed Scott, and let a smile creep onto his lips.  
"That pencilneck Arno sure could talk a big talk, and if you're telling the truth –which I doubt– then maybe he really was walking the walk into something big. Too bad I won't ever see it come to fruition–"  
He stopped himself, and returned his gaze to the terrier holding him at swordpoint.  
"Speaking of, you're awful chatty for a hitman."

"I'm no hitman, or assassin..."  
Scott released the dapper feline and backed away a few steps, but never let his smoldering eyes leave the mark.  
"I'm just an honest bloke trying to climb out of the hole ye dumped me down."

"Pfft! Spare me your sanctimony..." the lynx rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, "You came here to do a job, right?"

"I did."

"Then you'd better damn well do it already."

The terrier eyed his target curiously, glancing back and forth between him and the sword in his hands.  
"Ye're not going to beg for yer life or anything?"

"Ha! I was a marked man the second Harrison turned up dead! " The lynx scoffed back, "It was only a matter of time before someone got impatient with me. I was at the end of my rope grasping for straws trying to get at you first, but it looks like you've been in their pocket the whole time."

"I'm in nobody's pocket." Scott objected, "I'm a free agent, an independent mercenary."

"You go ahead and keep telling yourself that..."  
The older feline turned away, looking out over the speckled nighttime city as he spoke.  
"Like it or not, you're going to end up fighting somebody else's battles for a cause you don't believe in, because 'free agents' like you are nothing more than glorified grunts with bloated paychecks an bloated egos."

"If it means a life, then I don't mind fighting battles that aren't mine." The terrier followed him to the edge, stopping just over the other's shoulder, "I've given up believing in causes anyway."

"You say that now, but you _will_ mind; this I am absolutely certain of..."  
The lynx turned back to face Scott square in the eye.  
"Look, before you kill me like you've been hired to, could you do me just one tiny little favor and tell me who the hell put you up to all this? That's all I ever wanted from you in the first place."

Scott paused a moment, thinking, but only for a few seconds.  
"It was LCI, Lylat Central Intelligence."

"Huh... well, damn..."  
The feline let out a string of quiet, almost amused chuckling.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing now that I think about it. I just figured Intelligence was better than this..."  
The lynx stroked the longer fringe-fur along his jaw in a contemplative manner, relaxed even.  
"For all their closely guarded secrets and vast resources –all their official clandestine cockamamy– it's like those Agency buffoons are just another gang scrambling for control, same as everybody else."

"What're saying?" Scott asked, intrigued.

"Think about it scruff: you can't even spell the word 'clandestine' without a 'clan'..."  
The older feline backed way from Scott, right up to the very edge.  
"It's out of my hands now, and good riddance."

"No _wait!_"  
Scott reached out to grab him, but the lynx was already falling backward; plummeting down the many stories of Argo Tower to the ground so far below. The dark terrier watched this only for a moment...

As bizarre and abrupt as this turn of events was, there wasn't any time to waste; not here, not now. In a few minutes, the streets below would be swarming with paramedics, police officers, crime scene investigators, detectives, and all manner of official prying eyes. Scott had to leave, and fast. Questions and answers would have to wait.

In a cold and practiced manner, Scott replaced his sword in the weapon harness strapped to his back, and prepared his next move. He looked over the empty space between him and the building directly across, and spotted the open window. The terrier backed several steps away from the edge at first, stopping as he readjusted his position into an active stance, then made a sprinting dash for the edge. Scott reached the threshold between solid ground and empty air, and made a running jump from the edge; a blind leap of faith over the city streets that sent him soaring through the air for only a matter of seconds. In another instant, just as his trajectory began to descend, the dark terrier's form flashed bright, like a lightning bolt, and a pale blue blur streaked across the empty void...

As easily as that, Scott Aberdeen faded away, as if he never existed in the first place. For all intents and purposes, he was nothing more than an empty ghost...

* * *

_Make believe it's not just madness..._

-Micheal Clayton-

* * *

"... I escorted Beverly Finch back to the Cerinia Institute, was kept around for a quick round of questions, and sent on me way."  
He paused for a second, and breathed a deep, uneasy sigh of relief.  
"That's the last of it, everything I know, right up until ye came after me..."

Peter Cotton reached down, and stopped the recording.  
"Thank you, Scott."

They were back aboard the Château de l'Étoiles space station, in the same study-like room where they first met face-to-face, with the blue planet Corneria dominating the wall-sized window same as before. Both the terrier and the hare sat opposite one another in an identical pair of armchairs, with a simple coffee table in between them, and a small digital audio recorder placed in the center. Aside from a few minor details, it was almost like they never left, and simply picked up right where they left off before.

"What I cannae get out of me head though is why they let me go in the first place..."  
Scott leaned forward in his chair, with a pensive stare etched into his dark features.  
"If they had reason tae think I killed Harrison, why not keep me there? Why put a bounty on me and chase me down?"

The older hare retrieved the digital recording device, and placed it in a pocket.  
"Harrison's project was secret, and his backers didn't want to draw unnecessary attention to this debacle by launching an official investigation into something that isn't supposed to exist. From what I already knew and what you've told me now, I honestly can't blame them, even if their methods are flawed."

"Then why hire someone like me at all?"

"They didn't have a choice." Pete answered directly, "Harrison needed someone who knew how to fight, who wouldn't ask too many questions, and was expendable..."  
The hare gave Scott a distinct, unmistakably certain look that said without words, _'You are this person.'  
_"You were hired because it's very easy to keep independent mercs like you in-check. You just needed to be isolated, harassed, and crushed under the pressure until you broke. You saw it yourself: one false move would've spelled your end.

"But that's the life of a mercenary, ye see." the dark terrier replied with a solemn nod, "Only the strong and smart survive tae fight another battle."

"Then tell me Scott, how many more of these battles could you keep fighting by yourself: when the deck is stacked dead-against you, and your opponents are all cheating?"  
The hare leaned forward with intent, planting elbows on knees and lacing the fingers together in front of his face.

For a moment, it seemed like Scott Aberdeen was going to reply with another bout of indignant bravado –another affirmation of pride in his skill– but he stopped. Instead, the dark terrier sank back his chair, releasing a long sigh as he shook his head.  
"What in great, blazing hell have I stepped in?"

Pete gave a shrug as he stood up.  
"I don't know, but I'm gonna find out."

"What about me?" Scott asked, his words swirling with uncertainty, "What am I supposed tae do now?"

"Exactly what you choose to do." Pete answered, moving toward the room's exit, "You don't need me anymore, and I don't need–"

"I think you should keep your mercenary work going..."  
The door was already open, and a bright copper fox leaned lazily against the open doorway. His hands were pocketed in a neat pair of khaki slacks, and the sleeves of his blue dress shirt rolled up past the elbows. He couldn't have been more than thirty, possibly younger, yet he carried himself with an air of absolute authority.  
"I don't mean to butt-in on these things, but I know you can still do a lot of good in this world, Scott. It'd be a shame to see your sharp skills and valuable talents go to waste."  
The confident vulpine crossed over to the terrier in a firm, swaggering step.

"Do I know you?" Scott asked, standing up from the chair to look this newcomer squarely in the eye.

"You ought to:" Unfazed, the fox extended a hand to Scott. "Owen Phoenix, Chief Executive of the Space Dynamics company, and owner of this modest little space station I sometimes call home. Heard you had quite the adventure these past weeks."

"It's all in a day's work for a merc, really." Scott replied as the two exchanged a handshake.

"And it's work that I'd like to discuss with you..."  
Phoenix peered over his shoulder, and found Pete still standing there, watching.  
"If you're all done here, Pete, I need my office back."

"I was just heading out anyway." the hare answered, swerving out towards the doorway where one of the robotic servants waited...

"Thank you."

Phoenix's startlingly young voice carried a slight twinge of annoyance; kept in check, but still there. All the while he avoided eye-contact with the older hare as much as possible, and breathed a sigh of relief once he left the room to just Owen and Scott.

"As handy as these Agency guys are," the fox grumbled, "I just can't bring myself to trust them."

"Heh, I know that feeling." Scott bounced back with a chuckle.

Like a cold machine, Owen Phoenix simply switched straight into another topic.  
"The man you were hired to kill, who 'fell' from Argo tower, you know who he was?"

Scott nodded, "He was my target."

"My god those Agency sneaks just don't you people _anything_..."  
The fox gave another grumbling sigh, scratching his forehead as he rearranged his thoughts.  
"His name was Benjamin Rye, CEO of Argus Investments: a struggling financial firm that's seen more than its fair-share of hard times. Rye's poor management and succession of flops dragged the company down a hole it may not ever climb out of again. He had to be removed one way or another, but nobody had the guts to do it. Other measures had to be taken."

"And that's where I fit the picture, isn't it?" Scott stated with a grunt, "Figured as much."

"It was a mutually beneficial arrangement for us all: Rye was removed, you got your life back, and Peter Cotton got to hear your little tale of adventure–"

"Can ye cut the blathering and get tae the point?" Scott interrupted, "Something about work?"

Owen Phoenix paused a moment, staring at the impatient terrier with a pair analytical eyes, then plucked a business card out of his shirt pocket.  
"_This,_ is who Argus's board of directors have elected to replace Rye..."  
He passed the card toward Scott. The front side of the card read 'M. Banderos: Finances' along with several lines of contact information.  
"Argus is making a desperate gamble to place someone as untested as Banderos in charge, but I know it's the right bet. He made a name for himself backing an ambitious urban agriculture project, when no-one else dared even touch the subject. But now you can see hydroponic tower-farms cropping up in cities all across Lylat because of him. Point being, there's another enterprising project Banderos would like to undertake: he'd like to legitimize your profession as a military contractor."

"What's that now?" Scott asked, taken aback.

"Do I gotta spell it out for you?" the fox asked harshly, "He wants to set up this whole mercenary gig of yours as an actual _business,_ instead of just let you scrape by on whatever your current sorry situation is."

"Why? What's he getting out of it?"

"It's another one of these mutually beneficial arrangements, for just about everyone, you especially..."  
Phoenix began to lift the card up and away.  
"Of course, if you'd rather not–"

The terrier studied the young vulpine businessman as he waited. He clearly had no qualms about letting this window of opportunity close. What did he care? He was a multi-billionaire, and Scott was just another mercenary. Suppose then that this offer was legitimate? Even if it wasn't, it would still lead somewhere regardless. It was time once again for another blind leap of faith; wings could be built on the way down if need-be...

"Ah, what the hell," Scott blurted as he snagged the card from the fox's hand, "I'll do it."


	6. Where Angels Fear to Tread

**天使たちが踏むを恐れるところ**

_**Where Angels Fear to Tread**_

Corneria City University Campus...

The sky was bright, optimistic shade of blue, dotted with a loose smattering of clouds. One horizon stretched endlessly out over Corneria's deep blue oceans, punctuated by a sleek, ambitious urban skyline. The other horizon was dominated almost entirely by jagged, wall-like mountain range that followed the coastline; most of the flat land nearby being occupied by the metropolis of Corneria City. The university campus itself sat situated roughly between these two environments, and incorporated elements of both. The collegiate buildings stood in solemn pride, loosely spaced through the rolling mountain foothills of the campus grounds. The spaces in between were interspersed with lawns, parks, walkways and other means of access that connected all the university's structures and facilities to one another in a clean, efficient manner, and without miring the natural beauty of the surrounding landscape...

A young, cloudy gray raccoon emerged from one of the university's buildings, onto a campus alive with the busy traffic of students, teachers, employees, and many other curious visitors like himself. In his hands, Rick held a folder thick with hard documents, information by the CCU logo printed on the folder's cover. That folder, held in the hands of Richard Cooney, was quite literally at least the possibility of a new future...

The raccoon opened up the folder as he walked into the loose, constantly moving foot traffic of the university campus. To most, he appeared to simply be thumbing through the papers and leaflets within the folder – more or less oblivious to his immediate surroundings. Like it or not though, Cooney was likely more aware of his immediate surroundings than he'd care to admit. Within a few minutes of starting his walk, Rick noticed a figure trailing behind him, watching every move he made, and trying fairly successfully to stay hidden...

The raccoon stopped, interrupted by the buzzing vibration of his comm; and incoming call. Rick fished out the handset, recognizing the caller ID, and promptly answered.  
"Hey Ossie." the raccoon greeted, barely shifting a muscle. He made a broad, casual movement as he spoke, scanning the crowd, looking for the elusive figure that was watching him only moments ago.

"You crossed a line..."  
The voice that responded belonged to Caldwell, the same stark, black-and-white bird of prey who Cooney was recently at-odds with. By the cold, hard timbre of his voice, 'Ossie' was in no mood to strike up a friendly conversation.  
"The rest of us all gotta make a living too, you know? But you just _had _to be a greedy little–"

"What do you want?" Rick cut him off, partly annoyed, partly worried.

"I want what's mine:" Caldwell's voice answered, "I want the money you stole from me."

"Rache and I got Scott's bounty fair and square..."  
The raccoon started walking again, trying to blend back into the flow of campus foot-traffic, and sometimes glancing over his shoulder, expecting trouble to be stalking close behind.  
"We didn't steal anything from you."

"Don't feed me your bullshit, okay? Just, don't..."  
The unseen avian paused a second, breathing a bored sigh through Rick's handset.  
"I'll make this real easy, for old time's sake. You can give me what's mine, or I'll take something away that's yours. Either way, we'll be square."

"Osprey Caldwell, what is going on here? You've never been this sore about blowing a job before. What happened?"  
Cooney tried to remain calm and stoic, but even now he could catch the occasional odd glance from some of the other students, with their eyes resting on the raccoon only an instant before they moved on –uninterested, preoccupied in their own issues.

"_You_ happened." Caldwell answered over the comm, "You and your little bitch of a sister, _that's_ what happened."

The raccoon could feel his heart racing, pounding against the inside of his chest like an accelerating drumbeat. He tried his best to suppress the anxiety away from his voice, but he knew he wasn't convincing anyone.  
"It wasn't anything personal Ossie, just business. Hell, _you're_ the one who taught us never to bring emotion onto the job."

"This isn't personal either, just business..."  
By contrast, Caldwell remained cool and level, never betraying anything more than a steady determination.  
"The old apartments at 86th and Lakota, number 479. You have six hours."

"What?"

"It'll be gone in six hours, the thing that's yours, unless you bring the money you earned from your latest shenanigans –all one-fifty-thousand of it– to the location I just told you. You've just lost ten seconds."

"_What_ will be gone?" Rick demanded, almost in a growl, "Ossie, If you're gonna extort money like this, it helps if I know just what the damn terms are."

"You're a smart little flake, I'm sure you can figure it out... Yeah... While you're thinking about that, why don't you catch up on some of the local news? It might just spark your memory."  
And with that, Osprey Caldwell terminated the connection, leaving Rick all alone as he shuffled through the university campus walkways.

Local news...

Osprey Caldwell wouldn't have mentioned that so plainly if it didn't mean something. Armed with that thought, the raccoon snapped into action, scanning the immediate crowd again, this time looking for something in particular. There it was: someone sitting at a bench, the person's face obscured by a printed copy of the City Chronicle he was reading.

Rick approached the figure, who noticed the troubled raccoon approach, and lowered the newspaper. He was a smartly dressed simian man with a thoughtful, collected demeanor about him. The ape might've been an older student, or a younger professor, but Rick didn't care enough at the moment to identify him one way or another.

"Excuse me, could I borrow your paper for a second?" he asked, "I just need to check something real fast."

"Of course..."  
The other nodded and handed Cooney the paper, and looked over the raccoon with a curious, analytical eye while he flipped through the newsprint.  
"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." Rick lied.

"If you say so." the ape replied with a polite shrug.

Within a few seconds and a few pages, Rick found what he was looking for. It was a smaller article, tucked in the middle pages. Its meager headline read: STRUGGLING SIBLINGS MAKE GOOD ON LOTTERY WINNINGS, and was accompanied by a small photograph featuring Rick and Rachelle Cooney, and James between them with a goofy grin on his face...

"Oh God..."

A cold gust of wind blew across the campus, sending the raccoon's fur on-edge

"Look, you're _not_ fooling anyone." the ape stated, shaking his head, "What's the pr–"

"I gotta go." Rick blurted out as he dropped the paper back in the other's hands, "Thanks."

The puzzled ape could only watch as Cooney walked off on a brisk, agitated stride away into the distance.  
"...You're welcome."

* * *

The expansive, cathedral-like public hangar tucked into downtown Corneria City was much as it was before. Some of the vehicles had been switched around, or swapped out for others, but the rows of slumbering spacecraft remained... Okay, so maybe now there was a crew replacing one of the main hangar doors that'd recently been blasted to shreds. And maybe there was an armed security guard hanging out in the attendant's station too. Other than those minor alterations though, not a whole lot had changed, really.

Amidst the echoing clatter of the crew's work was another, more muffled voice, coming from a tiny Mercutio model courier spacecraft. It was music: an upbeat synthesized piece that would probably be classified as a kind of drum n' bass fusion. On top of the music's energized ambiance came the occasional clank, click, or ratchet of working hand tools.

These tools, along with a few mechanical parts, many of which looked brand-new, were being swapped in and out of a toolbox that lay on the hangar floor, cycling through the skilled hands of Rachelle Cooney. The raccoon was elbows-deep in the Mercitio's exterior engine maintenance hatch, her fur and clothes ruffled from work, smudged with grease stains in places, contributing to an overall aesthetic of hard-but-good work.

Rachelle's comm buzzed in her pocket, alerting her to an incoming call. Without breaking off the flow of her work, she accepted the call, sending it into her compact headset.

"Where are you?" Rick's voice suddenly asked.

"I'm in the hangar at 42nd, giving the old Mercitio the attention she's needed for a while..."  
Her brother's voice was strained, itchy, leading Rachelle to a conclusion.  
"Something's wrong."

"I need an active comm trace, and I need it now..."  
He spoke quickly, sometimes taking a quick breath, possibly while running.  
"Hack into the provider's network if you have to, just get me some eyes and a location."

"What for?" Rachelle asked, becoming more worried, "Rick, what's going on?"

Rick didn't answer straight away. It sounded like he stopped running, and a gust of wind crackled against his mic.

"Jim's in danger."

* * *

A lanky frog with mottled blue and black skin sat behind a computing terminal inside an ordinary looking office cubicle, not unlike the dozens of other nearly identical spaces surrounding it, filling the workspace. The amphibian worker paid no heed to his bleak immediate surroundings, his attention focused entirely on the display before him and its seemingly chaotic cycle of shifting windows. Thin he paused, noticing something amiss amidst the otherwise complete digital harmony before him.

"I think we got something..."  
Withing a few moments, another figure approached behind him, and waited for the worker to elaborate.  
"It's an unauthorized trace, right here."

The newcomer was a strongly built black and rusty-red canid, featuring the classic pointed ears and longer muzzle of the accepted norm.  
"Make the mic hot," he instructed, stepping in alongside the amphibian, "lets get an ear on this and see what they're up to."

"One remote microphone activation, coming up..."  
The frog punched a series of commands into the terminal, bringing up a whole new set of windows to perform the task at hand. He stopped, skipped a beat, perplexed at the new developments.  
"Huh, that's odd, the handset transceiver's been encrypted."

"Can you crack it?" the canid supervisor asked.

The blue amphibian swiveled around in his chair to face the other directly, scratching the back of his neck while he came up with an answer.  
"Well, I'd either need the encryption key they're using, or a few hours to try and decode it manually which –I don't need to remind you– isn't all that reliable anyway..."  
He huffed out a quick sigh and shrug, swiveling back to the terminal.  
"Until then, all we can do is watch the dot."

"Hmmm..."  
The rusty red canid could only stroke his chin in thought, quickly becoming more intrigued by it all.

"So, we gonna jump on this thing or what?" the frog asked over a shoulder.

The supervisor had to wait several indecisive moments, considering all the reasons for an encrypted comm channel on their network that they couldn't crack. At the end, he could only give his colleague a vague response.  
"Let it play, for now."

* * *

It was an older apartment building. Many places on the floor were discolored, permanently stained from a chronic neglect from proper cleaning. The walls showed many spots where the paint began stripping away, or a scuff mark from someone's shoe, on the wall? It might've easily been something else, as the poor lighting from the flickering fixtures overhead weren't helping to make things clearer. The hallway here was quiet, but far from silent. The muffled urban whir of constant traffic penetrated even here, where the only other sounds were either building utilities, or the occasional heated argument from down the hall...

Eventually, Rick Cooney came to a stop in front of one of the doors, numbered 479. The apartment wasn't the home of Osprey "Ossie" Caldwell, but one of a few safehouses scattered around the city that the avian kept available when needed. No one knew for sure were he called home.

The raccoon reach out to the panel next to the door, and buzzed the doorbell. In a few moments, a familiar voice answered through the door panel's intercom system.

"You're early, but that's okay." the grainy voice greeted through the intercom, "Come on in."

The apartment's door slid open, revealing Osprey Caldwell on the other side, dressed in an unassuming set of street clothes that belied his cunning, ruthless nature. The apartment behind him appeared just as humdrum, with the meager living space that opened to a balcony tucked at the far side, and a couple other doors that'd be closets, a bedroom, and a bathroom somewhere.

"Where's Jim?" Rick asked.

"The kid..." Caldwell stated with an indifferent nod, "I knew you were a smart one."

The raccoon was afraid, trying so hard to conceal his fear underneath a crusty layer of bitterness.  
"What did you do to him?"

"Nothing." the larger avian answered, stepping inside, "The little spaz is doped up on tranquilizers, but he's fine."

"Show me." Rick demanded, rightfully skeptical.

Osprey Caldwell beckoned the raccoon inside after him, leading his guest to one of the apartment's doors on the side.  
"It's a real shame you had to drag him into all this. The kid deserves better than a couple scoundrels like you and your sister."

He opened the door and showed Rick inside. It was a cramped little bedroom, with only enough space for a bed and basic furniture. James McCloud laid sprawled on the bed, unconscious but apparently unharmed. A conspicuous backpack sat at the foot of the bed; Caldwell must've grabbed him from the school.

Rick stepped inside and knelt down, inspecting the vulpine boy's motionless form closer. His breathing looked normal enough, and he wasn't twitching; whatever he was drugged up on, it didn't look too dangerous.  
"Aren't you uh... aren't you going to ask about your money?"

"No." Caldwell's voice answered from behind.

The raccoon froze, and his fur stood up on end.  
"Why not?" He tried to mask the underlying fear in his voice, but his speech quavered anyway, almost on the brink of stuttering. "That's what I came here for."

"Because you didn't bring it, and you weren't going to bring it even if you could've."

"Then... What the hell am I doing here?"

_* Click * _

"Graaahh!"

Rick screamed out a tortured cry at the top oh his lungs as a torrent of pain shot through the raccoon's body. All other thoughts, all other sensations were swept away in a riptide of pure agony. For a few seconds, the only world Richard Cooney knew was that of complete and unbridled pain. Within moments, his limbs gave up, and the raccoon collapsed in a gasping, writhing heap on the floor next to the bed where James lay.

"This was never about money..." the black and white avian mused in such a bored, casual voice.

Amidst the latent pain hanging around, Rick felt his hands being gathered behind his back, and secured together by a thick nylon zip-tie. He was being restrained. Instinct demanded that he fight it, but his mind wasn't thinking, and his limbs weren't obeying. Instead, the raccoon's body was dragged across the apartment's rough carpeted floor by a steady, unflinching hand.

"I'm not sore about blowing the job." Caldwell's voice clarified, "It happens to everyone once in a while, and we deal with it..."

After a few moments of having his face ground against the floor, Rick felt his ringing head rise with the rest of his body, and dumped back down onto a chair, with his bound hands tossed over the back. Another couple zips and his unmoving legs confirmed the fact that he was being secured to the chair; made helpless. With his slowly returning strength, Rick lifted his head, and saw something impossible.

Standing right there in the apartment's kitchen was Richard Cooney himself, an exact copy of the young raccoon right down the hooded sweatshirt and rough jeans. This apparition gave his helpless corporeal counterpart a smug look, then rolled his eyes and shook his head in a great sweeping motion that couldn't possibly have gone unnoticed...

Rick shook his own jumbled head and took another look, but the doppelgänger was gone. Only Osprey Caldwell's calm, mocking form remained as he stepped into the raccoon's view.

"Now, what I _am_ sore about –what I will bring emotion into the mix for– is when my twin protégés think they've earned some kind of special privileges well above and beyond their allotment."  
The avian pulled another chair in front of Rick, and plopped down in it across from him.  
"I mean, what got it into your messed-up head that you could cross me: your good old mentor?..."  
Caldwell waited patiently but intently for his answer, leaning forward with hands on his knees, and quite a content look gracing his face.

"I... we didn't know you were going for it too. The pay from that job would've let Rache and I start fresh, without you breathing down our necks..."  
Rick looked up at his avian captor, a curious strength steadying his gaze as a grim certainty accompanied his words.  
"You taught us to lie, to cheat, and to steal –you taught us to rob life right out of people. I'm done with all that shit–"

Caldwell lunged forward with a small hand-held device in his hand, moving too fast to clearly see. He jammed it into the raccoon's throat, and another wave of pain swept over the raccoon, cutting him short.

"Jhyeaaagh!"

"I taught you how to _survive!_" Caldwell roared over the other's scream.

The enraged avian stopped the discharge, and placed the small device into a pocket as he stood high over Rick. Though his voice lowered in volume, it became infused with an intensity never heard before.  
"I dragged you both from the gutters, and saved your worthless lives from an endless shit-pile of destitution. If it wasn't for me, you would've been pissing away what little money your Mom and Dad left you after their tragic little turn of events. I bent myself over _backwards_ for you two, and look what I've got to show for my efforts now–"

Caldwell stopped himself and turned around quickly, something caught his attention. He drew a blaster handgun and scanned the room, looking for anything suspect. He saw something, and instantly brought the weapon up, sighting his aim into the apartment's kitchen.

"Come out from behind there, you tramp-whore coon!" Osprey ordered as he wheeled around behind Rick, and planted his hangun's muzzle against the raccoon's spine at the base of his skull.  
"You have until the count of three! Come out nice and slow, or the flake dies!"

"Well, there goes the element of surprise."  
Rick recognized the voice: it was his own, in a sarcastic mocking tone, but he wasn't speaking.

"One..."  
One click: the safety of Caldwell's handgun had been disengaged, and the weapon was now active.

"There's only two ways this'll end now," the raccoon's disembodied voice mocked, "and neither is pretty."

"Two..."  
A second click: the pistol was primed manually, opening the magazine feed valve and flooding the weapon's firing chamber with a volatile gaseous compound stored in the ammunition cartridge.

"So which is it gonna be? Quick death now, or quick death later? Oh, the tension is just _killing_ me."

"Three..."  
One last click: the trigger. The primed charge was ionized and excited into a plasma state, then flung through an electromagnetic solenoid coil down the barrel, and into Rick's head at the other end end. The bolt of superheated plasma burned straight through the skin, skull, and flash-fried most of the brain-matter that got in its way before emerging from the opposite side...

The final click, and the entire gruesome sequence of events that would've followed, never came.

"Fine." Rachelle's bitter voice called out, muffled by some obstacle. "I'm coming out..."

She stood up from behind a kitchen counter, trading vicious glares with Osprey Caldwell as she did. The raccoon stepped into the open, revealing a pistol of her own in one hand, and her favored messenger-style bag slung across a shoulder.

Caldwell directed the muzzle of his handgun at Rachelle, and instructed her on her next actions.  
"Drop the weapon, lose the luggage, and step forward."

Reluctantly, Rachelle complied with the avian's demands, setting her pistol and bag down on the floor before moving into the open center of the room. The avian stepped away from Rick, and began walking a tight circle around a disarmed and completely exposed Rachelle.

"It's your usual tag-team setup, isn't it?" Osprey deduced, "Rick here distracted me, while you snuk in through the balcony."

"Actually, I teleported in using fancy-pants new technologies nobody else knows about..."  
Caldwell stopped a few paces in front of her, and the two of them swapped glares again for a few moments, until Rachelle finally moved on.  
"Yes, I came via the balcony back there."

"How'd you get in without making a sound?"

"Plasma torch tuned to ultrasonic frequencies for a silent cut." she answered, "Made a hole in the glass and released the latch manually from inside."

"Not bad, not bad at all. I ought to commend you for your ingenuity in this situation..."  
Caldwell heaved out a weary sigh, and slowly shook his head.  
"I tell you, it's a damn shame that you've both outlived your usefulness."

Rachelle stood still, tried very hard to remain calm in light of what she'd heard and what she'd been through, but she wasn't fooling anyone. Her breaths came in short, labored gasps; her hands began fidgeting with themselves. She dared not move though, not while the business end of Caldwell's blaster remained fixed on her, and too far away to attempt a snatch; she was pinned...

"Whoa, hold on a second here." Rick butted in from his restrained position, regaining some coherence at last. "Don't you think maybe you're overreacting?"

"No." He didn't even turn around, and kept his focus on Rachelle.

"Oh come on!..."  
Rick's words were still hoarse from the latest brutal throat treatment, and halted amidst a fit of coughs when he raised his voice.  
"Who else are you going to find with our skills and abilities? Who else can work together as fluidly as we do? You're only doing yourself a disservice by killing us."  
The raccoon was desperate; he tried not to sound it, but he was grasping for straws, anything to try in-vain to squeeze out.

In response, the black-and-white plumed avian simply threw his head back and laughed, but only for a second.  
"So, you think you're invaluable, do you? You think you're not expendable? You think you're somehow 'special' down here in the dumps? Well think again, because that's where you've got it all wrong. There will _always_ be someone down on their luck; someone so desperate to scrape by that they will do _anything_ to grab a few creds, even if it means lying, cheating, stealing, or taking another's life..."  
Osprey Caldwell raised his blaster handgun in a smooth rising arc, and trained his sights squarely at the petrified face of Rachelle Cooney.  
"No, tramps like you two are _easy_ to replace."

"Rick..."

She looked past Caldwell's firm form to her brother sat, strapped into the chair and helpless to change anything about it. He looked back to his sister, who was gripped by a frozen terror that was never apart of her before. There weren't any angles left to play here, no more aces hidden up sleeves, no bluffs, no sleight-of-hand tricks. They'd bet all-in on their hand, only to find the deck had been stacked against them from the start...

"I'm sorry..."  
Rick dropped his defeated head, closing his eyes. He knew exactly what was coming next.  
"_Shit,_ I... I am so sorry."

_* Blam! *_

It was the most painful sound he'd ever heard. He flinched at the noise with such force that the zip-ties behind his back began to cut into his wrists, but he didn't feel it; he didn't feel anything. There was no comparable physical pain, not even the electrically induced agony he was victim to earlier, that could match the anguish he felt now...

The dull thump of a collapsing body: it's the sound that came naturally after a gunshot. It happened, but it came from somewhere it shouldn't have. Rick knew what was there, but opened his eyes anyway, and had to look to be certain...

Rachelle was in-fact not dead. She was standing in the exact same spot that she'd been put before. However, the petrified terror in her eyes had shifted slightly to a petrified astonishment. The looming figure of Osprey Caldwell was no longer looming, but laying down on his back, with a blaster wound between his eyes, dead...

"You... leave her... alone..."

No. That was impossible. James was passed out in the bedroom. That couldn't possibly have been his voice. It must've been another hallucination. But there he was.

The cinnamon brown vulpine child was standing, barely, swaying on the brink of collapse. His steel blue eyes, determined as they were, weren't holding focus onto anything, just wandering in a general direction. In his hand, James McCloud held Rachelle's discarded blaster, and pointed it roughly at where Caldwell should've been...

He crumpled to the floor.

Rachelle knelt down next to Jame, almost out of reflex, and broke down; it was another unnatural moment of emotion for her. There were tears, there were quiet sobs as she wrapped her arms around the boy, but she wasn't used to it. Even as the rest of her vented all of the pent-up passion, her hands found the blaster in Jame's hand, and gently retrieved it...

"Goddammit! Get your asses in there _now!_" Another voice shouted. It was muffled...

The apartment's hallway door burst open, and a flurry of activity ensued. A group of armed and armored armored CCPD SWAT officers charged through and took positions inside, each prepared to face the worst. They were quickly followed by another figure: Saul, with his own handgun drawn and a raging fire in his eyes. The equine agent scanned the apartment, looking for threats, and only found Osprey Caldwell's corpse, with Rachelle's hand on the weapon...

Saul exhaled a sigh of relief and spoke into his miniature earpiece comm.  
"We're all clear in here. The sister took him down."

The soldier-like SWAT officers eased their tension, put their weapons away, and went about a much calmer flurry of activity. One of them cut Rick free of his bindings, someone else examined James, another tended to Caldwell's dead body. Somewhere within the sudden hustle, another person slipped in and managed to find his way to Rick...

"Ricky..."  
That was Peter Cotton. He'd come up alongside the raccoon just as he was being cut loose.  
"Rick I need you to come with me. There's something you and I have to discuss, it's about your–"

Rick didn't look over to the hare, and instead went forward to his wrecked sister, who was still huddled over Jame's unconscious body. He knelt down by her side, draping a weary arm across her shoulders. Rachelle leaned in closer against him, still venting an awkward emotional turmoil, and completely uncertain...

Rick heard Pete approach behind him, and questioned the hare without turning back to face him.  
"Does it have to be now?"

Pete simply stood by and watched. The rest of the apartment was still caught in the SWAT team's methodical bustling, with Saul barking orders at them every once in a while. The twins on the other hand remained motionless, broken down to nothing by the prior events, and utterly oblivious to the whirlwind of activity surrounding them. The older hare crossed on the other side of James, and knelt down to Rick and Rachelle's level so he could look them in the eyes. They may have been devastated, but they looked like they'd pull through it alright...

The officer examining James had unpacked a small first aid kit. From the kit, he'd produced a small paper packet and held it under the boy's nose; smelling salts. After a few seconds, Jame's nose and eyes started twitching, and the child ultimately awoke from his unconscious state.

"What?... What happened?" his speech was slurred, "What's going on?"

Rachelle didn't say anything, but held the young fox closer, crushing the boy in her embrace...

"You're... choking me." James squeaked, suddenly a bit frightened.

"Sorry..." Rachelle replied as she loosened her grip, "I'll tell you about it later."

"This is all a little weird right now..."  
Pete stood up, and directed the SWAT officer next to James to move off.  
"Look, take the kid home, get him some rest, Saul and I can clean things up here. Then meet me at Roasty's in an hour. Can you do that for me? For you?"

Rick had to stop and think for a minute; a difficult feat under the convoluted circumstances, with the SWAT officers still hurrying all over the place.  
"Yeah..." he finally confirmed with a nod, "I can do that."

* * *

_A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike. And all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. We find that after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us._

-John Steinbeck-

* * *

Roasty's was a fairly typical urban coffeehouse, during a fairly typical weekend afternoon. The hustle and bustle of the busy streets outside intermingled with quiet music and idle chatter inside, where a number of patrons of varying species went about their business. Some didn't stay, some brought notebook computers with them, and some simply sat alone with their beverage of choice. But at least two individuals shared one of the coffeehouse's modest tables, each with a steaming cup of coffee in front of them.

One was a rugged mid-aged hare with a dull brown fur tone, dressed in a heavy plaid patterned flannel shirt: Peter Cotton.  
"I thought Rachelle was gonna join you here."

The other directly across the table was a raccoon, wearing an unremarkable outfit of denim jeans and hoodie sweatshirt. He was young, but well past the fledgling age of youth: Richard Cooney.  
"She wanted to stay with Jim. She needs time; today took a lot out of her, and me too."

An awkward silence began to settle in for a moment. But Pete butted in before it swelled any larger.  
"I see you've applied to the University here; that's an excellent use of the payment. Most folks would've gone and spent it all on frivolous things, but you: you invested it in an education for yourself. Mind if I ask why?"

"I'm sick and tired of being a renegade lackey, I want to live a _real _life." Rick answered, fueled by and honest conviction, "I don't know what I'll end up majoring in yet, but going back to school is what I need. I need to learn what needs learning, so I go on to live a life like everyone else."

"I see..."  
The older hare nodded slowly, a deep thought or two swirling through his mind.  
"So, why did you go through so much trouble to get the kid, James? Why didn't you call the police like 'everyone else' would have?"

"I did what I did because I _had_ to..."  
The raccoon answered a little more firmly this time, almost like he'd taken offense at the question.  
"Jim was in serious trouble, and I knew _exactly _what I needed to do to get him out of that trouble. I knew all the angles, all the plays, all the options Ossie could've pulled for a ransom situation; and I knew how to undermine them all. I could put a stop to a god-awful situation where the police –hell, not even the _military_ would've had options."

"Fools rush in where angels fear to tread." Pete added in on the side.

"Yeah..." Rick responded, more grim now, "Ossie also knew what I'd do, and he conned me. I fucked up; I should've seen it coming; I should've gotten us _killed._ He played my instincts like a fiddle, and I danced to his tune. The only reason Rache and I are alive right now is because Jim somehow got it into him that he could fight, and then caught Ossie with his pants down..."  
He dropped his head into his hands, ashamed.  
"The whole thing is just _fucked,_ and I don't want anything to do with it ever again."

"Well, funny things happen that way sometimes. You just can't plan stuff like that." Pete let out a small chuckle, then cut it short before moving on; it seemed a little out of place there.  
"This drive of yours you told me about –this impulse to go out and fix what's fucked– I hope you're aware that those instincts will _never_ go away."

"What're you saying?" Rick asked, not looking up.

"Look, all I'm saying that you can go to the university; you can go ahead and live your 'real life', but you will always carry that instinct around with you like extra baggage. You will go through life seeing all the 'angles', all the 'plays', all the wrongs that you know how right, but there won't be anything you could do about it... Hey, look at me, this is important..."  
The older hare nudged at Rick's arm until he complied, staring toward Pete with a vague, uninterested glaze.  
"Now, what if I told you that your instincts could be put to use? That you could do some _real_ good in this fucked-up world of ours?"

There was a change in Rick's eye; not an instant change, but it was there. Pete's words had set of a spark in the younger raccoon's mind, and there was enough mental kindling in there to start a little flame.  
"You want to train me to be a spy, to do _your_ job."  
It was a statement of fact, not a question.

"Yep."

"And you think _I'm_ cut out for that."

"If I thought you weren't, we wouldn't be talking."

"Right..."  
The little flame in Rick's mind had swelled, catching onto an entire new possibility and burning it hot.  
"So that means I'd be working for Lylat Central Intelligence, a covert system-wide Intelligence agency, doing what exactly?"

"Whatever needs doing."

"I was hoping for something a little more specific."

"Then let me break it down for you, Ricky." the older hare began, "Lylat is _full_ of people: thinking people, passionate people, clever people, quiet people, ambitious people, downright _brilliant_ people, and butt-fuck _stupid_ people. Our job in Central Intelligence, our main overarching mission, is to protect them."

"Even the stupid people?" Rick asked.

"_Especially_ the stupid people." The hare replied flatly.

The raccoon paused next to a curious thought, then moved on.  
"Well, what are they being protecting from?"

"What's the biggest problems folks have these days?"

"Hell I don't know Pete, the economy? Crime? War? Petty politics?" Rick supplied, grasping for straws.

"No, those are mostly symptoms, the end results." Pete responded with a shaking head, "What's the underlying _cause_ of all that public angst?"

"Fear, ignorance, greed, anger–"

The hare stopped Rick's response before he could list off anymore.  
"Those are all emotions, but you're on the right track. What is it that emotions require? Think hard about this one now."

The raccoon released a sigh and leaned his head against a hand, glaring into coffee drink for several seconds, until an answer clicked into place.  
"Emotions require someone to feel them: people."

"Now you're seeing the vicious cycle we live in." Pete replied with an approving smile, "The biggest threat to the peoples of Lylat isn't an abstract concept like war, or the economy, or the wrath of some angry deity, or some outlandish plot device dreamed-up for a story. No, the biggest threat by far is the decisions and actions of other people, because people and the circumstances they find themselves in are never perfect. This goes for everyone, from the nice young lady over there who served us coffee, to you and me, and all the way up to the President of the Lylat Union."

"So what're you doing here? Ridding the Lylat System of all things evil?" Rick asked, half-joking.

The older hare's reaction was far less amused. His demeanor became cold and stony at the table, reflected by the grim inflection in his words.  
"There are many necessary evils that have to be endured, and many well-meaning goods that get thrown wildly out of hand. A governing body, or any organization really, is supposed to sort out which is which and then make decisions accordingly. Our politicians, while potentially very powerful in this respect, are often in an awkward position to make the more grisly decisions. Sometimes they and the people they're supposed to represent are better off not knowing about some of these decisions at all."

"And that's where you come in."

"That's where we come in."

Rick nodded in understanding, taking a moment before moving on.  
"Okay, but that still doesn't tell me what my duties as an agent would be."

"I said you'd do whatever needs doing, and there's a reason the public and public servants are better off not knowing exactly what that means."

"Well if I'm going to be an agent, that means I'm neither politician nor public, so exactly what _does_ it mean?" The raccoon asked, just beginning to lose his patience.

Pete took a long, preparatory drink of his own coffee before beginning his elaborate answer.  
"Agencies like LCI exist because _someone _has to know the horrible ugly truths, and make the horrible ugly choices that others just don't have the stomach for. As a part of this agency, if you have to lie, cheat, steal, or otherwise disregard the established laws and morals for an operation, you're expected to do so. If you have to liaise and cooperate with individuals or institutions known to be corrupt, malevolent or otherwise twisted, you're expected to do so. If you have to _completely_ destroy another person's life in order to keep a vital operation active, you are expected to do exactly that."

Rick glanced anxiously around the coffeehouse, massaging the back of his neck as he did.  
"Does that mean I'd be expected to lay down my life for this hazy 'greater cause' thing?"

"Worse" The hare answered with a quick shake of his head, "You'll have to decide what is and what isn't worth laying down the lives of others for, and who's life to lay down when that moment finally comes..."  
Pete stopped a moment, taking a swill from his gradually cooling coffee.  
"We're not soldiers, and don't you go pretending to be one either. Soldiers are relatively expendable –another grunt is easy enough to come by– but a successful agent, with solid connections throughout Lylat's major power-players and trusted contacts that can act on his or her behalf, is irreplaceable. There are virtually _no_ circumstances under which you'd sacrifice the queen where a pawn or another piece on the board can do the job instead."

"Pieces, pawns, major power-players?" the younger raccoon asked with some surprise, "You make it sound like this whole spy deal is some sort of a _game._"

"For all intents and purposes, that's exactly what it is." Pete replied with a shrug, "Imagine for a second, a game of chess mashed-up with a game of poker. You can't see the whole game board most of the time, or all the players at the table. It's not always clear who's side some of the pieces are on, and they'll even switch sides on you if you're not careful..."  
A knowing gleam flashed across the older hare's eyes, accompanied by sharp smirk.  
"Thing is, Lylat Central Intelligence is just one of several players in this great big deadly game of secrets."

"Then who else is at the table?" Rick asked, leaning in with interest.

"There's a whole _bunch_ of them, but off the top of my head: you've got a whole network of organized crime shticks; there's narcotics, arms, and other cartels for assorted contraband; various Intelligence/Counterintelligence components of planetary governments and militaries; many politically motivated militias, freedom fighters, terrorists and similar groups; as well as several business tycoons and prominent industrialists who can afford to do things their own way. All around them are pools of thieves, pirates, smugglers, mercenaries, bounty hunters and other disposable forms of help-for-hire, each with varying levels of skill, quality, and discretion. Sometimes elements of 'the help' will even form loose factions of their own and sit-in alongside the big players –highly skilled thieves for example are notorious for grouping together like that..."  
Pete puffed out a sigh of relief, and finished off the last his coffee before continuing on.  
"Other players come and go with the times, but something like what I just rambled at you is the usual lineup we see."

Rick had been nursing his own coffee drink, and was almost to the bottom by the time Pete was done.  
"I guess that means I'd be dealing with these other 'players' as an agent, right?"

The older hare supplied his answer with a nod, and further elaborated on the subject.  
"One of the many duties of an agent is to meet, greet, and schmooze with these players under the table in order to gain access to their information, resources, personnel, and even turn them against other opponents. Another related duty is to root out opposing players who try to take advantage of the agency in similar ways. Clearly there's going to be a bit of creativity involved in this line of work."

"So lying cheating and stealing then?" The raccoon asked, a worried look coming across his face.

"If that's what you gotta do..." Pete shrugged, trailing off. "Like I said, you'd be doing whatever needs doing."

"Or find someone else to do it who can..." the raccoon responded, understanding the dynamics described.  
"This is a hell of a lot to take in."

"I know..."

"But, what if I'd rather not do any of this?" Rick asked, "What if I just want to go on to the University and live that boring regular life?"

"That's fine, take your time." Pete assured, "I'm not forcing you to do anything, and there's nothing wrong with going to that university for a while. In fact, there are certain... 'academic programs' that the agency takes advantage of specifically for recruiting purposes."

"I'm sorry, what?" Rick asked, baffled.

"In a few days, Saul is gonna shift into sleeper-agent mode for a while, the poor guy's needing a break. You'll find him hanging around the old CCU campus once your mind is made up..."  
The older hare stood up and prepared to leave, giving his companion a few last words.  
"I've shown you the door and what's behind it, it's all down to you whether you're gonna step through it or not."

And with that, Pete turned and strolled casually out of the coffeehouse, leaving Rick alone at their table to think the largest and longest thoughts for himself...

* * *

Author Note:  
Finally got this out! You would not believe how many times I had to sit and think how this was all going to play out; I must've had about a dozen or so different directions I could've gone with this. But, it's out now, and I'm pretty happy with the way it came out. Now I can finally start moving on.

As always, your feedback is most welcome.


	7. Plight of the Phoenix

**鳳凰の契り**_**  
Plight of the Phoenix**_

"_Velocitas Eradico..."_

If an object cannot endure the forces subjected to it, it will distort, and distribute the force across a greater area: physical shock; a shock wave...

_Ek = p_^2 / 2 · _m_

_The Kinetic Energy of a mass increases exponentially according to its momentum..._

p = _m_ · v

_Momentum is the result of a mass and its velocity..._

"An object at rest stays at rest and an object in motion stays in motion unless acted upon by an outside force."

_The greater the mass and/or velocity of an object, the less an object will be effected by outside forces..._

[Large mass impractical. Small mass with greater velocity necessary.]

F = _m_ · a

_Force accelerates mass, gives velocity to mass, turning an object at rest into an object in motion that cannot be stopped unless acted on by another force..._

[Acceleration must be swift, near instantaneous. Extreme forces required to attain maximum velocity, but only for an instant at a time.]

_F _= _L_I x B

_A force is produced by the magnetic field induced by an electric current traveling through a conductive medium..._

[With a current-carrying conductive medium that is unrestricted, free to move, the force will produce motion in the medium; a moving projectile.]

_The intensity of the electric current must be maximized..._

An intense current induces an intense magnetic field...

An intense magnetic field imparts a greater force...

A greater force results in greater acceleration...

A greater acceleration results in a greater velocity...

A greater velocity carries a greater momentum...

A greater momentum carries greater kinetic energy...

A greater kinetic energy delivers a more intense shock...

"_Velocitas Eradico."_

Considerations: Imperfections. Flaws.

Resistance in the medium produces heat.

Friction of the projectile produces heat, erosion.

Excess heat results in distortion, more resistance.

Distortion results in more friction, more heat, more resistance.

[Heat displacement demands more power, more work, more complications.]

Heat must be minimized.

Resistance must be minimized.

Friction must be minimized.

Smooth...

Conductive...

Cool...

...

Fast...

...

"_Velocitas Eradico."_

"_I am speed, and I destroy."_

"Mr. Phoenix..."

/

* * *

/

"Mr. Phoenix..."

"Field-strength-from-a-steady-current-equals-the-magnetic-constant multiplied by... multiplied by..."

Owen Phoenix awoke, or at least came into a discernible state of awareness, sitting bolt upright behind the desk of his office aboard Château de l'Étoiles space station, staring out into the black, star-specked void of space. In his current state, the fox could only hold a quivering hand up against his pounding forehead, while his breath stuttered in a series of short, sharp gasps.

There was another occupant in the office: a polished, silver colored bipedal robot that stood to one side, speaking in a mechanical monotone.  
"Wallace Hargrave sent me to inform you that everyone has arrived. They are waiting for you in conference room 25 C, as per your request, sir."

"Yeah... right..."  
Coming to his senses –at least partly– Owen Phoenix opened a drawer in his desk filled with autoinjector tubes and loose cartridges, and began rummaging through it. Many of the tubes were empty, like they'd been used...

"Mr. Phoenix, I am once again obligated to remind you that neurostimulators are meant for reviving comatose patients, and are not intended to be administered while fully conscious."

"They help me think..."  
The fox stopped a moment, reeling and cringing from a sudden pang inside his head.  
"I run an _engineering_ company! I'd like to at least be able to speak the same language as all the gearheads who work for Space Dynamics! This is unlike any other company, and I cannot be like every other executive. Goddammit R.O.B. I _need_ this."

"It is unreasonable to hold yourself to such standards, sir. An engineering license typically requires a four-year undergraduate degree supplemented with up to six additional years of graduate studies, and that only qualifies the applicant to take the licensing exams."

Finally, Owen pulled one of the injector tubes out of the drawer, and loaded a fresh cartridge as he spoke.  
"Here we go, this should counteract the neurostim's side-effects, and help me focus..."  
He rolled up a sleeve of his roughened shirt, and emptied the hypodermic autoinjector into his forearm just beneath the elbow.  
"Don't look at me like that, I'll be fine."

"I cannot alter the way I look at you, sir."

Robots are only robots; computers that can walk, talk, and respond to voice commands. But sometimes –even though they're only being themselves– it seems like they're being smug, like they're somehow better than the flesh-and-blood that created them...

"R.O.B. 42." Owen stated in a firm voice as he dropped the injector tube and cartridge back in its drawer.

"Yes, Mr. Phoenix?"

The fox stood up from the desk and straightened his shirtsleeve. His motions and speech were more controlled now, likely from the drugs he'd only just taken.  
"Compute the exact untruncated decimal value for the square root of negative two, right now."

"Yes sir..."

The shining robot stood absolutely still, and obeyed the simple command.

"Processing..."

In the meantime, Owen smoothed down the matted fur, tucked his shirt again as well as other minor adjustments to salvage his haggard appearance.

"Processing..."

A robot, for all it could do, is still a machine, designed to obey any command given by a recognized authority, even if asked to do something impossible.

"Processing..."

Satisfied with his rushed grooming, Owen Phoenix stepped out of his lavish office with a chuckle, leaving R.O.B. 42 to its impossible task.

/

* * *

/

"What's taking him so long?" asked a rugged, russet colored ram.  
He wore a denim vest over a plain t-shirt, with a flame patterned tied around his hefty, curled horns. His posture was bored, impatient at the conference table, the fingers of one hand drumming against the polished wood while the other hand supported his drooping chin.

"He'll be here..."  
Next to the ram was a wiry, uneasy weasel in a clean-cut suit. He hid his anxiety well, but the telltale wandering eyes blew his cover. For all anyone else cared, he probably only half believed the words he spoke.

Across from the bored ram was a stoic, ash gray leopardess who sat silent and still with precisely controlled posture, sporting a pair of loose-fitting trousers and a form-fiting t-shirt that highlited her toned, clearly athletic physique. Her eyes were closed, lightly, and her hands laid cupped together on the table in front of her; meditation. Yet her perfect harmony was disturbed, one ear twitched, a reflexive reaction to a nearby sound that just wouldn't go away...

Next to her was a gangly, almost disturbingly thin blue-gray avian with white, hair-like plumage running down from his head. He sat quietly with his folded arms across his chest, dressed in all black, including a many pocketed floor-length coat that hung loosely over his frame. A pair of thick headphones clung to the avian's head, and the faint twinge of a heavy metal band could be heard leaking out from them...

"Well, time sure as hell ain't getting any shorter..."  
The russet ram turned to his right, to Scott Aberdeen, who wasn't doing much, just staring down at his hands as he kneaded them together.  
"You, fidget-fingers, don't be a stranger..." he said as he thrust a strong hand to the terrier, "Name's Malcolm Aries."

The terrier looked up, a little hesitant, but returned the ram's gesture and shook his hand.  
"Scott Aberdeen."

"So what's your story, Scott?"

"I'd rather not tell."

Malcolm huffed out a sharp sigh, frustrated.  
"Look son, skinny-dip there ain't gonna talk to nobody with that trash is flooding his ears, the ice priestess hadn't said a single gosh-darned word, yet, and this other jitterbug behind me is dull as a asteroid. If you won't fit something into the silence, this whole shindig'll get real awkward, real fast."

"My past isn't exactly a pleasant one." Scott replied, turning his head forward away from the chatty ram.

"Hey, no worries." Malcolm assured with a dismissive wave of his hand, "We _all_ got skeletons buried in our closets, comes with the territory of merc-work. Me for example: I used to run this little freighter and crew from port to port all across Lylat, picking up odd jobs as they came. Man, those were some _fine_ days."

"So why'd ye stop then?" Scott asked, turning to the ram once more, "What're ye doing here?"

The rugged ram considered the query for a few thoughtful moments, slowly nodding his heavy head.  
"That right there is something of a tale, but I guess we got some time–"

He was cut off when the conference room's door sprung open, and Owen Phoenix strode in brimming with confidence, drawing the entire room's worth of attention.  
"Sorry I'm late everyone."

"Or maybe not." Malcolm muttered with a shrug.

Phoenix made his way to the front of the room, where he made himself comfortable behind a built-in terminal in the conference room's table.  
"Got everything set up like I need it?" he asked

"It's all there." the weasel answered, relief taking hold now that his superior finally made it, "Just press play."

"That's great, that's great..."  
The fox stopped a moment, and looked up from the terminal.  
"Say Wally, could you do me a favor?"

"Sure thing boss."

"Go into my office and calm R.O.B. down. I got the poor sucker stumped on a simple math problem again."

The weasel gave Owen a puzzled look, but got up and left the room without much fuss, leaving the fox and his hodgepodge of guests alone at the table.

"Pie?" The thin, black-clad avian had taken the headphones off, and his question came seemingly from nowhere.

"Come again?" Phoenix asked.

"Your talking calculator is stumbling over an irrational number, like the ratio pi, right?"

"No, Adrian." the fox replied, "Square root of neg two, actually."

"Huh, good one..." Adrian commented with a subtle chuckle, "It's bad enough you got it chewing on an irrational, but make it a negative root with the imaginary number _i_ and... I guess we'll see if Wally can get there before your robot fries its own CPU..."  
The avian had attracted the attention of the entire table, all but Owen Phenix giving him a series of confused looks.  
"What? It's only _math_. You look like we're talking in a foreign language or something."

"It sure sounds foreign to _me._" the ram guffawed, with Adrian rolling his eyes as his response.

Owen kept right on going, turning to Scott Aberdeen, seeming to shelve the last exchange he had only moments ago with Adrian.  
"Nice to have you here again Scott, haven't seen you since that little stint with Argus and the LCI."

Caught somewhat off-guard, the terrier just gave him a shrug and a weak smile.

"Welcome back, Chakori." Owen turned now to the ash gray leopardess, "I guess that other gig didn't pan-out so well for you."

Her only acknowledgement was a low, almost growl-like sigh.

"Mal–"

"Phoenix," the ram cut him off, "lets just ditch this chitter-chatter and drill straight down to the brass tacks..."  
He leaned in over the table toward Owen, using both hands as a firm support while he gave the fox an equally firm gaze.  
"What did you bring us all here for, again?"

Everyone else turned toward Owen Phoenix, matching Malcolm's inquisitive stare with their own.

The fox surveyed the room and its occupants, and gave a quick nod before beginning, pacing slowly back and forth in front of the conference table.  
"Right now, you are each considering a proposal to form a small, private military contracting company, at my suggestion. When I approached each of you individually, I expected that I'd require your sort of services in the near future, and so began making preparations for it. What I _didn't_ expect is that I'd need you so soon..."  
Owen came to a stop, and a grim mantle fell over the young fox with the pause.  
"Gentlemen, and lady, the Space Dynamics company is at _war._"

Owen entered a command into the terminal in front of him. The lights dimmed, and an image soon appeared on the wall...

/

* * *

/

/

It was the backdrop of space: endless black nothing, interspersed with innumerable immobile points of light. A few of the lights went out, in the center of the picture, and more were extinguished as time flew past. The snuffed-out lights eventually formed a clear silhouette: roughly X shaped, with a large bulge at the cross. A bright light suddenly flashed from the center of the X, and the image became white noise static...

A different shot now. The background of space was still there, but the foreground was dominated by the shape of a space cruiser, moving fast and maneuvering incredibly well for its size. The vessel's design was dominated by a set of 'wings' arranged in an X, and a forward jutting bridge at the end of a long 'neck' with a gigantic plasma cannon slung underneath it. The ship's hull was painted black, but heavily overlaid with bold graffiti, and a snarling maw painted onto the nose. One of the few clearly printed words on the hull, uncluttered by the surrounding graffiti, was the ship's name: _Cerberus_...

The image cut to another shot: some kind of interior security footage. There were around a dozen or so armed security guards, taking cover at various positions in a corridor with their weapons trained on an unseen target. The screen suddenly went dark, with only the muzzle flashes of the guards weaponry providing brief glimpses of light. Seconds later, a raging inferno flooded the corridor, a jet of flame spewing from an unseen point in the blackness. And as quick as it started, the burst of fire stopped. The hallway was dark again, but not black, dimly lit by the writhing amber torches of burning figures. The hellish light showed one of the guards still on his feet, not burnt badly, and another hulking shadow of a figure, standing across from him. The juggernaut lumbered forward and the guard fired back as furiously as he could, but his bulky target kept right on coming, unfazed by the torrent of blasterfire. The guard backed away, until he came up against the wall, and the squat juggernaut was upon him. What went on next wasn't clear from the camera footage; apparently a brief, but futile struggle. When the great, looming figure backed away, there was a distinct dark splotch against the corridor wall, and the guard lay on the floor in two pieces...

The image cut to a blurred and shaky handheld shot, until it came steady, in a well lit corridor not unlike from the last shot. This time however, there was audio.

"Hallo Mr. Phoenix man! How do you do?" boomed a deep, chesty voice.

The frame jolted to face a long faced mastiff type canid with patchy black-and-white fur, and pair of cropped ears that stood up on-end. He was a tower of a figure, challenging a bear for sheer height, but certainly not for girth. The image frame only displayed his image from the chest up, showing him in a ballistic vest and sleeveless shirt that exposed his long, muscular arms, one of which lightly held the grip of an assault rifle in his hand.

"Enjoy our little display?" the canid asked with jolly grin, "No? Understandable I suppose, can't please everyone. So many people today lack appreciation for the bold and avant-garde–"

"Oi!" another voice spat, "No movement! Or I'll torch the whole bleedin' lot of you where you stand!"

The frame swung over to a shorter, bulky, more compact figure encased in a set of power armor; the shadowy figure from earlier. He stood off to one side, holding an outstretched fist toward a group of bystanders huddling together against a wall as he threatened them...

"Hold steady now..." the deep voice said as the image jostled again with the moving camera.

The image came to rest on an open notebook computer who's screen took up the entire frame, concealing the bearer. The computer screen scrolled through a set of technical diagrams, schematics, chemical and mathematical formulas, and dense pages of text; all too quickly to discern much detail from.

"See what we find here, Mr. Phoenix man? I cannot make sense of it; very scientifical and technological; I have no use for it. But I believe I can find someone who does, and I believe also that they will pay a handsome price to have it..."  
The booming voice dropped an octave, taking a more authoritative timbre.  
"Put it away, Serge."

Serge was never seen, and the computer screen just slipped away to show the first figure again.

"Oh, no no no _no_. Don't think I mean to be unfair Mr. Phoenix man. If you care deeply about your secrets, deeply enough to track us down and get them back for yourself, we will give you a good fair price for them, at a discount even! No questions, no strings, no tricks. What you say?"  
He switched back to the lower, commanding voice.  
"Stop the recording–"

The images ended, but the lights hadn't yet come up in the conference room.

/

"Hellhounds..." Malcolm Arie's grumbled in the dimness, "Bunch of overgrown punks with a few cute toys."

Chakori's outlandish voice spoke for the first time, in Cornerian, but affected by an exotic foreign accent.  
"They know the arts of combat, that much is certain."

"Hold on, there's more." Phoenix interrupted, while the screen cut to another image...

/

The frame flickered on again. It was apparently the same handheld camera, but the image was far more unsteady and out of focus. There was audio with the video, but all that was heard was a slow, deep gasps of someone out of breath...

"Owen..." a woman's voice, probably mid-aged...

The frame centered itself, completely dominated by the worn-out face of a pale furred rat. Her chiseled features suggested strength, but her grave, tired voice carried the heavy burden of someone defeated.  
"They're gone, but they... they sabotaged the station's life support, jettisoned all our escape pods, and wrecked every vehicle in the hangar bay on the way out. I've got the guys working on a solution –they're hopeful and everything– but I'm just trying to keep everyone calm. It's only a matter of time until... until we're all dead. I figure about ten minutes or so–"

The frame suddenly jostled to one side, coming down against the floor. The pale rat had fallen to her knees, exhausted and sucking down lungfulls of air. She pulled herself back up to her feet though, and pressed on with her message...

"I know they meant for you to see this video, they must've figured I'd transmit to you like I'm going to now... For the love of Lylat, do _not_ give in to their demands, do _not_ trust them; they are _experts _at this. They knew every weakness, every loophole... they knew _exactly_ how to screw us all over. Even if you buy the info back like they proposed, there's nothing to stop them from just turning around and selling another copy to the highest bidder–"

The video image jerked again, and she almost collapsed. The pale rat's face twisted into a pained grimace, barely containing a dry heave. She was dying, slowly...

"I'm not thinking about the company anymore... I'm not thinking about our profits, or the competitive edge, or anything else businesslike... hell I never did anyway, always left that to you... No, I am thinking about who those bastards could sell to, the kind of maniacs' hands our tech might end up in: criminal thugs, backworld fanatics, terrorist factions..."

She managed to stagger her way to a cluttered desk, slumped herself into the chair behind it, and set the camera on the desk's edge, facing her.

"Do whatever you have to, but do _not_ let my research get out in the open. The spilt blood will be on _our_ hands if it does... Teresa Nicodemus, signing off... I'm sorry Owen."

Teresa reached a quivering hand to the camera, and the image went dark for the final time.

/

"Bloody _brutal_ that is." Scott -ed as the lights faded up.

"The response team got there an hour later, found Teresa dead in her office." Owen explained, "There was a camera, but no video, and the station's transmission records were erased completely. She must've purged everything shortly after she sent, so nobody else would snag details of the attack."

"What kind of research were they working on?" Adrian asked.

"Broadly: weapon systems and advanced countermeasures. I couldn't tell you the details though, pirates ran off with them and..."  
The fox halted, clawing at his forehead, stumbling over a stampede of his own thoughts.  
"Look– listen– that station, and the projects Teresa and her people were developing there, were supposed to be _secret. _Nobody but _nobody _knows about it, not even my own senior staff. The only way this could've happened is that somebody within my organization betrayed me, tipped off these... _Hellhounds_, and sicked them on this company's assets."

"So what's the motivation here?" Malcolm Aries pried, only mildly suspicious, "What does this hypothetical traitor of yours get out this mess other than pissing you off?"

"My guess, Malcolm, would be a substantial finder's fee."  
Owen paused a few moments, tossing a dead-certain look to the rugged ram to keep him assured.  
"I'm sure you're familiar with the corporate stereotypes: fat, lazy, comfortable, and perfectly content to remain so. All they want is to maintain the status quo that keeps them in wealth and power, by any and all means available. So when some upstart strikes out from the blue and –Sol forbid– dares to make innovative breakthroughs that will change the face of modern technology as we know it, why that upstart becomes a threat to that fat-and-happy status quo: a threat thats just _got_ to be neutralized. They won't admit it to anyone but themselves, but my competitors are afraid, quaking in their thousand-cred Zonessian balmoral shoes because now that Owen Phoenix's Space Dynamics is up and running at full-steam, they can see their comfy contracts and easy profits slipping away. They can't keep up, but they're desperate to stay ahead; because of this, I can guarantee you there is no low they will not stoop to in order to drag this company down, and keep their industry stranglehold secure...

The young fox stopped a few moments. He placed his hands on his hips, hung his head low, and shook his weary head as he stared at the floor by his feet, but then something odd happened. Instead of a sigh –instead of the expected gesture of defeat– Owen Phoenix began to laugh. It started out small, never got much more intense than a chuckle as the fox raised his smirking head, and bowed out his chest in an ironic display of pride. In some twisted way, he actually enjoyed being the target of powerful enemies...

"There are many who think Space Dynamics can be bullied into submission because I'm 'young', 'green', 'inexperienced', _'naive' _even. They think I don't have the balls to fight back when someone strikes a low blow. They expect me to huddle in a corner sucking my thumb while they tear down the company I put together, and claim my innovations as their own. But they're _wrong..._"  
Owen changed again, slipping into a fearsome, single-minded determination that felt out of place for someone in a collared shirt and tie.  
"I told you people: I am at war, and I mean it."

"Aren't there government agencies that take care of things like this?" Adrian asked,

"Ha! You try firing the government at an army of corporate lawyers, and see how well _that_ works for you." Owen scoffed back, "No, the law can't help us here, not how I need it. I'm not going to get tangled up with the police, military, or someone else official, not while I still have other options at my disposal. What I need right now is something, someone a little more tangible to get it done: I need _you..._"  
The fox stopped, and let his gaze wander around the table, making it absolutely clear who he meant by 'you'.  
"I had my pick of the finest persons-for-hire Lylat has to offer, and look at who I end up picking:"

"A rebel without a cause..." Owen looked to Scott.

"A soldier without an army..." to Chakori.

"A genius without the chance..." to Adrian.

"And a captain without a crew..." to Malcolm.

"Well Phoenix, you sure make a _very_ impressive speech there, but talk is cheap..."  
The rugged ram brought is hands together on the table, and leaned forward.  
"Action, on the other hand, is not."

"On the subject of action:" the ash gray leopardess added, "what exactly would _our_ action entail?"

"The greater issues at play here may be complex, but what I need from you specifically is quite simple: recover Teresa Nicodemus's research before it gets out in the open, or destroy it if you can't."

"Ye expect us tae do that _how?_" Scott blurted out.

"And who's to say that the data isn't circulating all over the black market already?" Adrian questioned, "Information moves _very_ fast these days."

"I know where and when the Hellhounds intend to sell their digital booty." Owen answered firmly, "These pirate thugs aren't going to let their prize go _anywhere_ out of their grasp until they see the money."

"Fair enough." Malcolm agreed with a nod, "So what're the specifics of this intel you got for us?"

"For starters, Nicodemus's research is slated to be auctioned through an information broker on the Sargasso station freeport, goes by the alias _'__Episteme__', _and there's plenty more where that came from."

"I see..."  
The ram paused a moment, letting his hidden internal calculator sort out the circumstances.  
"Now, this sounds to me like a very dangerous, high-risk type of undertaking, and I think I speak for everybody at the table when I say we ain't agreed to nothing yet. I just want to make sure that you're prepared to hold up your end of this bargain."

The rest of the table's occupants turned toward Phoenix with the same look of quiet anticipation. This, where an employer puts their money, is where an employer's character come out, and where deals are made or broken.

"Spoken like a true mercenary..." Owen replied with a satisfied smirk, "This is one rare instance where the stakes are high enough that I will spare no expense to see the issue resolved, you can rest assured that I won't be at all stingy with your compensation. In addition, if there are any supplies, gear, or equipment you need to make this job work –within reason of course– I'll see to it that it's supplied."

Malcolm, Scott, Adrian and Chakori looked around the table to each other, and found no one unsatisfied with the terms Owen Phoenix had given. At that moment, a collection of four wayward vagabonds became a single, unified team...

"Well..." The ram announced, "I think you got yourself a deal."

/

_To Be Continued._

/

* * *

/

Author Note:

This one was kind of tricky. I was a little worried that there'd be too much info-dumping in this chapter with everything going on, but I think I got it to work here...

As always, your feedback is most welcome.


	8. Cloak and Dagger

Waiting...

...

Waiting is always the hardest part.

...

The decision has been made, the task given, and there's nothing more to be done. Yet even in such certainty, in such confidence, there is no comfort to be found. There is too much time: time which becomes a vital factor in physics equations– time that is unrelentingly consistent yet so often distorted by perception– time that never is convenient in times of crisis... in fact, time is almost always at the core of any crisis...

There is too much time: time to speculate, to worry, to ask the dangerous question of 'What if?', to think about what may happen, to consider all the things that could go wrong–

"_No, _Goddammit!" Owen swore to himself, "I don't know anything about it, nothing. It's not my area of expertise, not anything I can solve directly. It's not worth stressing over–"

But so much hinges on this outcome.

"I've done everything I can. I have to trust that they'll pull it off, somehow– "

But is it enough?

"I don't know–"

What do you do if the worst happens?

"I don't know–"

What _is_ the worst that could happen?

"_I Don't KNOW!_"

He slammed a hand palm-down against the polished wood surface of a desk, and held it there. His hand was trembling, shaking like a windblown leaf, making his fringerclaws dance against the desktop. The otherwise silent space quickly filled with a percussive, clattering chorus of an anxious hand, unable to act of its own accord...

Waiting is always the hardest part...

Owen Phoenix's office on the Château de l'Étoiles station was always large for an office, the same size it'd always been since it was first built. But now, the space felt impossibly large, making Owen feel impossibly small within it, helpless against other forces at work all around him. Everything; the doors, the furniture, the walls, floor and ceiling, the people, it all seemed so far away, so distant, so detached from himself. As it seemed, the only way to fill such vast stretches of emptiness was to become larger than life.

The fox lifted his shivering hand from the table, caressing it in the grip of his other, more stable hand. At the same time, he paced around to the backside of his desk, head down, fighting to contain the anxieties. He couldn't do it alone though, needed help...

Owen opened the low drawer in his desk once more, where the autoinjector and a variety of compatible cartridges lay scattered inside. Most of the injection cartridges were filled with beta blockers, adrenal nullifiers to suppress the body's natural fight-or-flight response, to muffle the overactive pessimistic voices in the mind that second guess decisions that can't be altered.

Phoenix lifted the the autoinjector out of the drawer, prepped it for use, and loaded one of the cartridges, all in the steady habitual rhythm of someone who'd been doing it for some time–

He noticed something, and glanced up.

Just outside the wall-sized window of his office, staring Owen Phenix in the eye with its snarling maw and oversized plasma cannon, was the pirate cruiser Cerberus.

/

* * *

**外套と剣 **_**  
Cloak and Dagger**_

* * *

_/_

"_Before we even think about a plan, we gotta be absolutely sure we know exactly who and what we're dealing with..." Malcolm began, "So, anyone else know much about the Hellhounds?"_

/

He eyed his target: a circular board divided into twenty radial sections, with several additional sections created by a series of concentric rings. The center of this target, a miniscule circle no more than four millimeteres across, was precisely two meteres thirty seven centimeteres away, and one metere seventy-three centimeteres above the ground. The air was shifting slightly, pushed left-to-right and down at roughly thirty degrees below the horizontal by the fan inside a nearby ventilation grille...

At a weight of twenty-five grams each, the three sporting darts felt well balanced in his hand. They should fly straight and obediently with no consequential deviation in their flight path, so long as they were told exactly what to do.

He closed his eyes, regulated his breathing to a steady pulse, relaxed his muscles so there was no tension. The steady drumbeat of his heart gradually eased down to a slower, easy rhythm; a rhythm with enough space between beats in which to make his move.

"Précis." he whispered under his breath.

In a quick, whip-like motion, he flung all three darts in rapid succession, quickly followed by dull _thuck-thuck-thuck._

He opened his eyes. All three darts were crowded together on the board, their points embedded deep within the four millimetere bullseye at its center.

/

"_I... I know some..." Scott answered, with a hint of hesitation, "Sort of admired them, for a bit."_

"_What'dya got?"_

"_They're a wee, tight-knit group, canid only..."_

/

The air was alive; alive with the penetrating scents of innumerable alcoholic concoctions, alive with with the constant flow of service from customer to waiter to bartender back to customer again, and the air was alive with the social murmur of the establishment's many patrons. The busy main floor would've been about the size and volume of a cozy restaurant, and some of the patrons did indeed have foodstuffs in front of them, but this place was first and foremost a local social hub. By the chosen decor and athletic memorabilia, plus several viewscreens placed throughout the space that showed a variety of sporting events, it was a sport-pub. Some people were there to have a beer or two with their buddies, some were there to ease themselves off a hard day's work, or lack of work, and at least a few were there for other purposes...

"And ye'll be in position when ye need tae, right?" Scott asked into his comm.

The dark terrier sat alone at one of the tables in a corner, with a nearly finished glass of a dark, foamy beer resting in front of him. He blended well with the sport-pub's patrons who, by and large, were an eclectic mix of spacer types, many of whom wore their empty weapon holsters in plain sight for all to see. The Sargasso freeport may have allowed weapons aboard, but anyone who ran an establishment that serves alcohol would be a fool to let their customers stagger drunk in their place with a deadly weapon at their disposal. Consequently, one of the features of the sport-pub was a coat-check at the front locked behind steel bars, and attended by a pair of staggering, Sargasso-bred bouncers.

"Hey, _relax._" Malcolm's voice reassured through the hand-comm's speaker, "Go in there and act your part, and let us worry about ours."

Scott's eyes peered through the huddled mass of people across the sport-pub to an unassuming group of three canids grouped around a table near a dartboard. One of them was clearly the black-and-white mastiff who led the Hellhounds pirate group, sitting at the table with the others behind him, and he'd just put his own hand-comm away after an unheard conversation.

"I'm going in."  
Scott cut the comm and downed the last of the beer, composing himself before stepping up, and approaching the three deadliest figures in the crowded room.

"Garmir?"

The tall mastiff looked up from his empty table to this scraggly black newcomer. He was not at all annoyed or irritated by the terrier's bold approach, but certainly curious.

/

"_Their quirky piece-of-work of a captain is a fellow known as Garmir "the Great", Katinan I think. He's their mouthpiece, and tactics-wiz. If I had tae guess his background, I'd say military spec-ops squad leader, but that's only a hunch."_

/

"I didn't know the Hounds and ye were in Sargasso space." Scott greeted him with a cheerful grin, "What brings?"

"Business, my friend, and some well-earned pleasure..."  
To most onlookers, Garmir 'the Great' would've seemed normal enough, even friendly. To a trained eye though, his casual outer demeanor simply concealed a cool, calculating, threat-assessing machine. Gestures that concealed visual sweeps of the room, tics to hide his thought process, and a subtly coiled posture ready to spring into action if need-be; the telltale habits were all there.  
"Aberdeen, isn't it? Wasn't there supposed to be a bounty on you?"

"Heh, not anymore." Scott answered with proud sneer, "Saw tae that me'self."

"Then you're going to _have_ to tell me how you got out of a that jam, if you'll join us for a bit that is..."  
Garmir gestured to an empty chair across from him, waiting for Scott to sit down before continuing. The other two figures were somewhere behind the mastiff, engaged in a discussion of their own.  
"The boys and I did consider collecting on you, briefly, if only show all those helpless bottomfeeders how the bounty business is done. You might have given us a challenge from what I hear, how may small-time bounty sniffers did you dispatch? Six–"

"Seven, actually." the terrier interrupted, "I even killed the bastard who posted the bounty in the first place."

"A tactical choice to be sure; wouldn't want any loose ends to come back at you."  
The black-and-white mastiff nodded, quietly evaluating Scott at every instant.  
"So what brought _you_ here to the Sargasso freeport: business or pleasure?"

"Business, I hope." Scott answered, scratching at the back of his neck. "I've been toting around in this Axiom Tech Havoc-class attack fighter for a while now, picking up jobs where and when I can get them."

"A Havoc you say?" Garmir replied, clearly intrigued, "That's certainly no mere pea-shooter."

"Oh she's a fearsome _beauty,_ but it's hard tae pay for all her expenses, keep up on her maintenance, or push her tae the fullest like she deserves on the wee errands I get flying solo. She needs a home, and some fine work for her tae let loose in."

"Ah, I see where this is going–"

_* Bam! *_

A strong hand slammed down against the table from behind Garmir, and probably could've crushed it with only a little more force.

"What? So you think you're hot stuff, do you?" A new voice spat, "You think you got what it takes to join up with the Hellhounds, is that it?"

"And what of it?"

/

"_That thick-headed brute in the power armor goes by "Bloody Shuck" or just "Shuck" for short. For all intents and purposes, he's the blunt, heavy end of the stick that gets swung the hardest, and for good reason too: he is one tough son-of-a-bitch, even outside the armor..."_

/

Shuck was built like a flesh-and-blood tank: not especially tall, but stout and thick, like four tree trunks attached to a boulder. His wide, short-muzzled face contorted into a furious scowl as his eyes drilled into Scott, accentuating the folds and loose flaps of skin typical of the bull canid group. He loomed over the terrier with both of his battle-hardened hands rooted against the table.

"Listen mug, we've got a whole load of things better to do than pat the heads of our oggling admirers. Now scurry off, you worthless _scrub._"

"I'm not going anywhere 'til I've said me piece." Scott shot back, undeterred.

"You don't look so tough." Shuck scoffed, "I bet you wouldn't last _ten minutes_ on the job if we was to let you in."

"D'ye want a bloody _resume_ from me?" the terrier demanded as he shot to his feet and glared back at Shuck, slowly presenting a clenched fist in one hand.  
"I'll show ye me qualifications firsthand if ye like, tae yer _face._"

Shuck simply took a step back and chuckled, unimpressed by Scott's bravado.  
"What do think, eh boss?" the bull-canid asked Garmir, who remained cool and passive throughout the heated exchange, "Should I just toss him out the joint here, or out the airlock?"

"Go ahead an' try it, ye daftie ba'-heidit oaf!"

The bull-canid turned back to Scott, beaming with a smile of anticipation as he cracked his knuckles.  
"You know, I think I just might."

"Then quit yer gum bumpin' and put yer acts where ye–"

There wasn't much time to react.

Shuck kicked at the table, sending it careening toward Scott. The terrier jumped over it with an impressive flying corkscrew twist, landing back on his feet with ease. The sudden commotion between these two cleared an open circle within the crowd, a makeshift arena lined with curious onlookers, eager for the ensuing fight. The two canid combatants squared off at either end of the circle; one a stony juggernaut, the other a wily fireball.

The bull-canid thundered forward, fists flying like a pair of cannonballs that Scott strained to dodge with every swing. Shuck's technique favored a refined, lowered boxer's stance that capitalized on his already tank-like build to maximize his defense. Every probing, experimental strike that Scott tried had no effect – easily blocked by Shuck, or simply ignored in favor of a counterattack. Undermining his rock solid defenses demanded something bolder, something risky...

Scott sidestepped and ducked below a powerful right-hook from his opponent, and sprung back up in an aerial spinning roundhouse kick aimed at the head; a highly acrobatic move, and high-powered if it can connect.

It didn't connect. Shuck lunged forward just as the terrier came out of his spin, grabbing Scott mid-air by his clothing, and drawing him into a bear-hug clinch. Another second would see Scott slammed to the ground below, or his lungs crushed, or more...

Not wasting am instant, the terrier raised his arms high above him and slammed his elbows down onto Shuck's ears. The bull-canid's balance quaked from the double elbow strike, and his grip loosened up enough to escape from.

Getting some purchase on his opponent's shoulders, Scott blasted a knee up into the jaw, sending Shuck staggering back. Before he could recover though, the terrier twisted around with the knee strike's momentum, following up with spinning back-kick straight to the face. Scott landed easily on his feet, while shuck slammed hard against his back. He got up again; bloodied, battered, but apparently with plenty more fight to spare.

"You fucking _pikey!_" he yelled, snarling with rage, "I'm gonna bludgeon your spazy little milt of a body to a bloody _pulp,_ and–"

"_Enough!..._"  
Garmir's shout was enough to silence Shuck, and the mass of spectators watching the brawl

The towering mastiff stepped out of the surrounding crowd, pulling Shuck aside by one of his thick shoulders before going straight to Scott. He carried himself differently now, taking a genuine interest in the terrier rather, than simply playing nice and being polite.  
"Where did you learn to fight like that?"

"Corneria's GLA." the terrier answered between panting breaths, "I was trained under Sean O'Ferrall himself."

"There are no falsehoods in combat. Each move, each split-second decision in the heat of battle reveals who you truly are. I believe you..."  
The surrounding sport-pub and its patrons faded back into the usual dull roar, having lost interest after Garmir ended the fight. Still, the terrier and the mastiff talked.  
"The name of O'Ferrall has not gone unheard of. He was an honorable, courageous man who stood up for what he believed in, and had the stones to hold firm under fire; a legend in his own lifetime. It's a shame he laid down his blade in exchange for a life of politics."

"But _I_ haven't." Scott added, thumping his chest. "I chose the life of a mercenary over the shackles of servitude the GLA was offered as part of the Aranburgh settlement. It didn't sit right with me."

"And it shows: the flames of rebellion consume you still..."  
Garmir extended a large, battle-scared hand to the smaller terrier before him.  
"If you are up to the challenges, then the Hellhounds can provide your fires with an outlet, and a lucrative one too."

Scott's hand jittered as he clasped the towering mastiff's with either excitement, or anxiety, but it played anyway.  
"Sounds bloody perfect."

"Bring your fighter and anything else you need aboard Cerberus, and we'll have you settled in. You'll find the ship berthed at gate A-27."

"I'm not gonna let ye regret this."

Scott Aberdeen turned away and headed back through the crowded sport-pub toward the exit, leaving Garmir to himself for the time being.

"You should have waited."

The mastiff wasn't alarmed by the firm, quiet voice behind him, and replied with a bored sigh.  
"You're such a pessimist, Serge –so afraid to take chances."

/

"_The 'Serge' we heard mention of is one 'Serge Noire', watch out. This slick bastard is nothing but trouble. He don't say much, and he ain't seen much, but Serge's shenanigans have always been essential to the group's success._

/

Serge was of average build for canids, maybe on the slimmer side, with a longer and more pointed muzzle. His fur was predominantly a slick black, with a sheen like polished stone. He dressed a step up from the sport-pub's surrounding majority, but without being blatantly out of place: black leather lapel-vest over a brown collared shirt.

"He's trouble." Serge said, his pinpoint gaze locked onto Scott as he left the sport-pub.

"And that is why _you_ will watch him." Garmir slapped the other on the shoulder, never faltering from his carefree, easygoing timbre. "He's earned a chance to prove his worth –one chance only– nothing more."

"Hm."

"I can handle the meet with Episteme. Go back to Cerberus with Shuck, and make sure the ship is secure. If our guest puts one so much as one toeclaw out of line, feel free to kill him..."  
Noire stared back at Garmir with his stoic, silently skeptical glare, waiting to hear some satisfactory justification, which the towering mastiff supplied.  
"Even without Aberdeen, we could always find use for his Havoc fighter."

_/_

* * *

"_They'll want to keep their prize in the most secure location they have," Adrian mentioned, "and it's going to be aboard their ship."_

"_What can you tell us about it?"_

"_Cerberus looks like it's a Galatian class frigate, not a very popular model, but it seems to have been so heavily modified that it's now far surpassed the original design."_

"_How so?"_

"_Most importantly, with a crew of only three or four, the ship must be outfitted with extensive internal automation systems to function as it does, probably handled through a shipboard AI. This means Cerberus will be forced to put in for maintenance far more often than a fully crewed comparable vessel. No technician, however talented, can keep a ship like Cerberus running smoothly for long all alone, so they'll pretty much _have_ to bring some outside help aboard while they're at Sargasso..."_

* * *

_/_

Serge Noire stepped out of Cerberus's airlock onto the boarding gantry. It was little more than a drab, articulated corridor housed in a movable frame, used for access between docked space vessels and the station itself; not worth extensive analysis. Serge was dressed much the same as he was for the past several hours, with the notable addition of a knee-length coat, fitted just loose enough for the silent canid's purposes...

It was only a matter of seconds before he came to the station gate itself, which opened up to allow Noire, and receive the party that called him out.

"How long is it supposed to take you guys to get out anyway?" a gruff voice greeted.

Standing in the spartan reception area on the other side of the gate were three figures, each in a set of matching red jumpsuits: mechanics or technicians by the look of it. One was a stocky chestnut ram, the eldest and loudest of the group; another was an impossibly thin blue-gray avian, a keen-eyed thinking type; the final figure was a well built, stoic faced leopardess; she was trouble.

Serge waited, patiently, with chiseled onyx stare that could outlast eternity, or something like it.

"Yeah..."  
The ram just gave Noire an uncomfortable wince, and carried on without a response.  
"Anyway, we brought the parts you ordered. We're here to deliver and install them." He patted a stack of cases next to him. "We'll also run a checkup on your ship's systems, fix what need-be–"

"Leave the parts and go." Serge cut the ram off, "I can install them myself."

"I'm _sure_ you can," the other agreed with mock wholeheartedness, "but we still gotta take a peek in there and see if everything is running alright anyway."

"This ship needs nothing else."

"O yeah?" the chestnut ram challenged, "How much of the diagnostic check was performed by your shipboard AI? Or did you check every single system on your rig by sight?"

Noire's stance and voice took a slightly sharper edge, annoyed.  
"That is no concern of–"

"There are a number of critical shipboard issues that most automated systems can't pick up on, especially on a ship so heavily modified as Cerberus here."  
Serge was interrupted this time by the twig-boned feather-face. His neck looked so frail, it could probably be snapped easily by a quick–

No. There wasn't any need to let anger rule here, that was Shuck's brutish domain. If these three are so intent on acting their parts, then it is only in good taste to play along with their little game, for now.  
"What would these 'issues' be?" the canid asked, still stoic, but less hostile.

"A _big_ one is hydrogen embrittlement of the reactor casing, along with other mechanisms that store and handle reactor fuel. My guess it that you've long discarded the propulsion/power generation hardware this tub came with, and since replaced them with beefier models. Am I right?"

Serge didn't answer the thin avian's questions, but he continued anyway.

"If a pipe or valve is made brittle when the deuterium/tritium fuel mix leeches into the metal casings that enclose it, the structure becomes liable to crack open under operational stress, or even explode. That'll leave your ship completely powerless until you fix the problem, not to mention the mess of all that flammable hydrogen compound reactor fuel squirting out all over the place. It's gonna be a hell of a lot easier to detect and fix here and now, instead of somewhere out in space when you're trying to do something. Is that a chance you're willing to take on a sub-skeleton crew vessel like Cerberus?"

The stocky ram stepped forward once again, trying to reassure Noire  
"If we don't find anything, we won't charge you a single cred."

"Hm..."  
Their ruse was painfully obvious, but they were committed to their cause, that's for sure. Perhaps what this petty band of wanna-be thieves needed was a taste of their own medicine, albeit in far more potent a dosage.

Serge beckoned the group to follow, and passed through the gate to Cerberus with three marks in tow.

He was going to enjoy this.

/

* * *

"_Okay Mr. 'genius', you've done hack-jobs like these before," Malcolm pressed Adrian, "So where exactly aboard their ship are they gonna store this data? and how're they gonna store it?"_

"_Judging by the kind of hell Serge Noire can do to a Space Dynamics research station and its systems, he's no fool when it comes to digital data storage and protection. He's probably encrypted the research several times over in a specific sequence to keep it from being read, expanded it to take up as much space as possible, broken it up into little pieces and scattered them all over the ship's mainframe to make it difficult to gather together. One piece might be stored in life support, another in personal files, and some might even be in–"_

"_Just spare us the techno-babble, please, and tell us how bad it's gonna be."_

"_Worst and most likely scenario: it'll be a digital scavenger hunt, jigsaw puzzle, and at least a dozen mind-bending math-type problems all stacked on top of each other. I'm not just gonna be able to pop in there and download the damn thing."_

"_Goddammit Adrian." the ram fumed,"You handy hacker types are supposed to be all over these things; solving any problems that a computer can throw at you."_

"_Well I am _so..._ so sorry to burst your bubble here, but filmmakers and two-cred novelists don't know jack-shit about my business, and neither do you it seems. If Serge uses the whole fucking ship as a storage device –which he probably will– then I'm not gonna be able to get in there and do what I need to do, and this job will be sunk."_

_..._

"_The whole ship you say?"_

"_Well... yeah."_

"_Actually, I think this job is still very doable, and then some..."_

* * *

/

The cabin Scott was given aboard Cerberus was small, cramped and scarcely furnished, probably meant to be officer's quarters when the ship was first built. The bed was jammed into one corner with a few changes of clothes stacked on top of it. In place of a closet was a pair of sturdy lockers crammed against the bedside, where clothes and other personal equipment could be stored. Scott himself sat at the room's meager desk and computer terminal, where there was barely enough space for even him to be comfortable, and slid a tiny flash drive between his thumb and forefinger, staring at it with a somewhat bored, somewhat anxious gaze.

He never really understood computer technology beyond the necessary basics, but there were incredibly powerful tools available that could disrupt computer systems, snatch information from their memory, or even take full control over the system itself. One such tool was supposed to be in this flash drive, and was absolutely imperative to the task at hand. All he had to do here was plug it into the terminal and let it do its thing, which is exactly what he did...

_* Thud * Thud *_

The heavy, hammer-like knock on his door was followed by muffled, irritated voice from outside.  
"Oi, scrub!"

Scott shuddered a bit from the sudden noise, then got up and opened the sliding door.

Waiting on the other side was of course the bulky bull-canid Shuck, but now enclosed neck-down in his infamous ubiquitous suit of powered armor, with the helmet tucked under one arm. Every motion he made was accompanied by a whir of motors and mechanisms to keep the cumbersome armor agile, yet he moved in it with such ease and familiarity, as if it was simply a second skin of high-strength metallic alloys. It even came with several years worth of scars, dents, and symbols stenciled onto the armor plates like personal tattoos.

"Quick your mucking about and gear up."

"What's goin' on then?"  
Scott backed away from the door to the lockers, and opened one of them up. Inside were his military-style tactical vest, high caliber blaster handgun, along with his impact claymore and corresponding harness. The terrier retrieved these and proceeded to secure his gear over his habitually sturdy choice of clothing, listening for the other's response.

"Serge's gone and roped us a few idiot muggers trying to squeeze their way on-board." Shuck explained with gleeful gleaming eyes, "You, I and he are going to flush 'em out good, and send 'em back with a lesson they won't soon forget."

"Sounds fantastic..."  
With his trademark gear secured and prepped for action, Scott came to the door where the armored canid stood in his way.  
"Is all the armour really necessary?"

"Shock and awe, mate; course it's necessary..." With a chuckle, Shuck jammed on his helmet and strapped it in place. "Now let's swing by the armory fetch you something a bit more _real _to brandish and threaten with."

/

* * *

/

Cerberus's engine room was dominated by an identical pair of large cylindrical structures extending along the length of the of the chamber to the very rear, taking up most of the wall space on the left and right: the ship's main drive thrusters. The room also housed a sizable fusion reactor core in the center between the thruster housings, with a bank electrical generators tucked in behind it. A whole slew of pipes, cables, hoses and wires connected the engine room's mechanisms to one another, and out into the rest of the ship, carrying fuel, electrical power, data feeds, cryogenic cooling systems and other mechanical necessities to and from where they needed to go. The engine room was eerily quiet for now, with its machines dormant while the ship remained docked. There was one sound however that rang out through the sleeping silence.

"_Wow..._"  
Malcolm Aries ogled over one of the readout displays, near the entrance where there was some open floorspace.

The whole engine room was a tight, cramped space with only enough extra room for engineers and technicians to squeeze in and perform their duties, mainly through a network of catwalks, crawlways and narrow passages that found their way to every system. Adrian and Chakori each were meandering through these accessways while the ram kept talking on. Serge Noire observed them all from a point just inside the entrance door, waiting...

"The power output you've got these suckers pumping at is nothing short of _mind-boggling._" Malcolm continued, nearly bouncing with excitement, mock or otherwise, "Hell, I don't think these plasma thrusters are even rated to go as hot as you're burning them. Sure, that means you need a few creative cooling solutions to keep the engines from melting, like the 'wings' you put on the hull as extra heat radiators, but _damn_ these babes got some serious_–_"

He was cut of by a sudden, sharp metallic pressure against the back of his head: a gun barrel.

"What the hell, buddy?"Malcolm yelped, throwing his hands up in surrender, "I'm only trying to do you a goddamn service here!"

Holding him at gunpoint, Serge pulled the ram away from the engineering readout and steered him toward the engine room's exit, yet remained very aware of his two compatriots following, slinking up behind the quiet canid. Chakori and Adrian each drew a blaster handgun hidden in their mechanic's jumpsuits, and prepped them for use. Serge made no effort to respond to the leopardess or the brainy avian; he didn't need to. The door slid open open into the ship's central corridor beyond, where both Scott and Shuck were waiting.

"Hold up!..."  
Shuck appeared sealed up in his armor, thumping against the floor with every step. The armored bull-canid was armed most obviously with a startlingly large, normally tripod mounted auto-shotgun in his hands. He bounced bounced muzzle of this monstrous weapon back and forth between Adrian and Chakori, both of whom stopped dead in their tracks.  
"Any of you sorry sods who'd rather _not_ end up as sticky drippy red bits on the bulkheads: _Clear, the Fuck, Out!_"

Scott was off to one side, taking far more passive observatory role in this bust. In addition to his usual gear, the dark terrier also held a sturdy and maneuverable assault carbine in his confident trained hands –too large to be a submachine gun, but too small to warrant the term 'rifle'.

Still with Malcolm at gunpoint, Serge looked to Scott, and motioned his head toward the two figures behind him as if to say, "take care of them".

/

* * *

"_Okay folks." Malcolm began again, "What's the absolute worst-case scenario that can happen to us while we're aboard?"_

"_We get caught," Adrian answered quickly, "and we have to fight our way through."_

"_Then that's the contingency we're all gonna prep for." the ram affirmed, "Phoenix hired seasoned combat veterans, _not _regular pro thieves, for a reason: it's gonna get butt-ugly in there, and we've gotta get outta whatever mess is waiting for us. Remember, they're dirty underhanded pirates, they'll want to try and surprise _us, _but we've gotta be ready for when they try and pull a fast one."_

* * *

/

Three 'prisoners', three 'captors'. This was one of the scenarios that they'd planned for.

The group of six had only just exited Cerberus's engine room, and were walking through the ship's drab central corridor. It ran fore to aft for most of the vessel's length, with only a few passages into other areas.

Each of the Hellhounds, including Scott, was trusted with guarding one of the would-be thieves dressed as mechanics. Silent Serge kept his eyes and handgun barrel on Malcolm Aries, though his attention kept careful tabs on everyone and everything around him. Scott had his assault carbine planted in the small of Chakori's back, a temporary ruse until the opportune moment. Adrian on the other hand was given the shortest end of the stick, having to walk with the Shuck looming over him at every moment...

There was nothing for it, he'd have to risk it. The thin avian reached inside the mechanic's jumpsuit where the his handheld rested, and triggered the command–

"What's that you got there, eh?"

Shuck thumped him at his suspicious movement, his armored gauntlet nearly crushing the avian's shoulder as he pulled his hand from the jumpsuit.

"Nothing–"

"_Bollocks!_"

_* Thunk *_

Adrian buckled and collapsed under the force of his captor's downward buttstroke against his upper back, likely cracking some ribs in the process. Almost immediately after, Shuck knelt down and flipped the blue-gray avian onto his back with one hand. Sprawled on the deck floor, Adrian let out a few painful groans as he was roughly frisked by the armored canid.

Scott and Chakori were a few paces behind the other two pairs for the moment, a crucial moment. Without using a second more than necessary, Scott handed off his assault carbine and spare magazine cartridges the leopardess, both of whom went into action almost immediately following the exchange.

"What's _this?_" Shuck asked as he extracted his armored gauntlet-encased hand from Adrian's jumpsuit, clutching a small, handheld computing tablet. "What are you up to, you scrawny little feather-cunt?"  
He threw the handheld to the floor, breaking it into several pieces, and bought the wide gauge muzzle of his auto-shotgun to bear on the avian.  
"Talk!"

/

"Hm?"  
Noticing the commotion behind him, Serge stopped and turned to further assess the–

The next sequence of events occurred simultaneously, and very, very rapidly.

Everything began to shake and shudder with a steady, rumbling vibration. The sound escalating in volume and pitch from a low grumble, to a strong and constant reverberation. In another moment, the entire corridor swung sideways with the maneuvering vessel. Cerberus was waking up.

"_Merde!_" Noire cursed beneath the clamor.

When Serge regained his balance, he found himself staring down the barrel of an assault carbine, held in the expert hands of an icy-eyed leopardess.  
"Release him."

/

"_Let's not forget that bastard with the power armor," Adrian reminded him. "He'll be one tough-ass lug to deal with."_

"_Exactly..." the ram, agreed, "So how do we fight through that?"_

"_Heavy weapons." Chakori supplied almost immediately, "Armor-piercing anti-materiel firearms, HEAT grenades and other lightweight anti-armor weapons should prove effective."_

"_Valid ideas Chakori, but we won't be able to smuggle those toys aboard..." Malcolm considered, "Even if we could, they're too big, too bulky, too complicated, or too risky for what we're up against. We can't bank on raiding the ship's armory either."_

"_Adhesive explosives:" the leopardess speculated once more, "Plant a sticky bomb on his armor."_

"_And just how d'ye think ye'll get close enough for that?" Scott questioned, "He's not a bloody tank in the city; ye cannae just walk up tae him and slap on a charge. He's an armored infantryman, in the tight corridors of a space vessel."_

"_You got a better idea?" Malcolm asked._

"_I can take him."_

/

Scott came alongside the armored form of Shuck, and in a quick wheel-like motion, drew his impact claymore brought it crashing down on the auto-shotgun in Shuck's hands. The shotgun bucked away in the bull-canid's hand, and fired from reflex. The impact from the sword blow had damaged the weapon's firing mechanism which caused the shotgun to misfire, and cripple it beyond any further use.

Shuck flinched in his armor, concealing any scowl of rage or twinge of surprise behind his expressionless helmet. He stepped back to face the terrier, seething in his metallic exoskeleton.  
"I knew you was trouble, from the very start..."  
With a couple clicks and whir of servomotors, a pair of chainsaw blades swung out from panels in the armor's forearm guards, and locked themselves in-line with the canid's forearms. Shuck activated the blades, and took up his boxing stance with these grisly whizzing 'punch blades' at the ready.

Scott just gave the armored canid a manic toothy smile, and came at him once again...

/

"Well," Malcolm Aries began, reflecting on the chaos around him, "this is all seems a little more than slightly awkward, don't you think?"

Serge still had hold of the ram, with the muzzle of his handgun pressed against the other's skull. The addition of the armed-and-dangerous leopardess, coupled with the turncoat antics of Scott, and the fact that the ship was starting up, altered the math of the situation. It all demanded immediate action.

With a flick of his wrist, Serge Noire flung a small cloud of powdery white dust out of his sleeve between himself and Chakori across from him. In another instant, the cloud exploded in a blinding flash and deafening _bang, _catching the others off guard before they could react.

Chakori and Malcolm recovered to find Noire absent. A quick scan of the area found the quiet canid sprinting away back toward Cerberus's engine room. He was quickly obscured though by a plume of smoke filling the corridor, spewing out from a smoke grenade dropped only moments before.

Chakori pointed her weapon into the smoke and let fly a flurry of blasterfire, but hit nothing.  
"He's gone."

"No..."  
Adrian had pulled himself out of the fight, and managed to prop himself up against a nearby wall. He was in a bad shape; clutching one side of his chest as his breath came in short, wheezing spasms, and some blood trickling out the edges of his beak.  
"You gotta go after him, stop him, before he disables the ship."

"Is that what he's up to?" Malcolm asked.

"I– urgh... I don't have control."  
The slim avian held up a few broken pieces of his handheld, and dropped them clattering to the floor.  
"I hacked in alright, but only managed to trigger the flash startup protocols programed into the automation systems. If Serge shuts down the ship from engineering, then it won't matter what happens. We won't be going anywhere."

Chakori gave a curt nod as she reloaded the assault carbine's magazine with a fresh cartridge, and advanced into the smoke after Serge.

Adrian hauled himself to his feet, staggering under the weight of his injuries and forcing his words to get out.  
"You gotta help... help me get to the bridge."

"You're not gonna keel over on me, are you?" Malcolm questioned as he pulled the slim avian's arm across his shoulders, supporting him. "Maybe we should get you to the med-bay–"

"Later!" Adrian snapped back, "In a few minutes, someone on that station is going to get suspicious, and tangle themselves up in this mess. We need to get control of the ship, fast, and I can only do that from the bridge now."

The ram looked back briefly, at the furious melee between Scott and Shuck, and the thick cloud of smoke beyond.

"It's not our fight." the injured avian mentioned, noticing Malcom stare off, "There's nothing more we can do for them."

Malcoml gave a quick nod, and helped Adrian further through the central corridor toward the bridge, leaving the clamor of battle behind.

"I hope they know what they're doing."

/

The clatter of close-quarters combat between Scott and Shuck gradually faded away into a constant, rhythmic rumble as Chakori neared the ship's engine room, occasionally interrupted by the swirling hiss of a discharging smoke grenade. The misty gray smoke choked and obscured everything, making a ghostly tunnel out of the corridor. In some places, visibility was impaired so completely that either wall of the corridor became near impossible to see, as well as anything more than a few meters away.

Serge Noire was in there, somewhere, hiding amidst his smokescreen and immutable din of Cerberus's engines and power plant. The leopardess sidled her way through with caution, never lingering far from cover as she tried to scan the area with her assault carbine.

"Come out and fight, you coward!"

_* Blam! *_

Chakori received a near instantaneous response in the form of a blaster shot from the mist. She returned fire with a short burst of blaster fire of her own as she ducked behind the corner of a side passage. Another hostile shot whizzed past, from another angle altogether.

Before the leopardess had even a second to reassess her situation, she heard the distinct _tink tink _of of a bouncing grenade, which was about to land next to her. Chakori dove away rolling, scrambling for another scrap of cover to protect herself from the likely shrapnel, and pressed her hands over her ears to protect from the sound.

_* Bang! *_

The bright flash and percussive blast meant it was a flashbang.

She scooped up the assault carbine and swung it out, firing another burst toward where the grenade had just detonated, anticipating Noire to use the flashbang to cover an advance. He wasn't there. No body fell to the floor. All that was there was the thick, impenetrable wall of gray mist that hid Serge's every movement.

He was out there, toying with her, making the leopardess jump at shadows while the quiet canid slunk away to do whatever he pleased. It had to end.

In the momentary lull, Chakori looked down, and noticed the bright red fabric of the mechanic's jumpsuit she wore, and how starkly it contrasted against her own ash-gray fur...

It was an insane idea to be sure, but given the inconvenient circumstances, it just might work.

/

By the many new nicks and scrapes on Shuck's armor, and the deep, worn out breaths taken by Scott, the two have been fighting for some time. The armored figure fought with a series of boxing style punches, augmented with slashes that made use of his forearm-mounted chainsaw blades. The wily terrier fought back with a simple, effective, and occasionally acrobatic sword technique, unable to bring more conventional techniques to bear on such a peculiar opponent. Blows were fired, exchanged, but never connected with any significance to sway the fight.

Finally, Shuck managed to catch the sword, stuck between the back of his gauntlet encased hand and the base of the chainsaw blade. He yanked the sword off to one side, and stared Scott in the face through the visor of his helmet.

"Give it up, scrub!"

"You first!"

Scott twisted his sword against the bind with such force and speed, that it snapped the chainsaw blade clean off its mounting, allowing the terrier a free slash wherever he pleased. He went for a twisting trust at Shuck's throat, but the bull-canid caught the sword with his good blade, and deflected it away.

Shuck rushed in at this opening, grabbing the smaller terrier by his vest and lifting him clear off the floor with one arm. Without breaking momentum, the armored canid swung over his shoulder and hurled Scott away. While airborne though, the terrier slashed Shuck in the face, grinding the tip of the impact claymore through the helmet's visor.

Scott crashed hard on the metal floor, but managed to roll himself onto his feet well enough. Shuck was having some trouble of his own, with a visor shattered by a sword slash that he couldn't see out of anymore. In a fit of rage, the armored canid ripped the ruined helmet off his head and tossed it aside, and prepared one last trick up his sleeve...

Snarling at Scott with a maniacal rage, Shuck stretched a clenched fist in the terrier's general direction. In another instant, a great jet of flame shot out from a nozzle attached to one of the armor's arms, threating to engulf the entire corridor in a blazing inferno.

From seemingly nowhere, a pale blue blur streaked through the flames at an unbelievable speed, unhindered by the raging blaze. Scott quickly reappeared on the other side of Shuck, in a stance that suggested he'd completed a mighty sword stroke. Indeed, something was off about the armored canid: a clear liquid spewed freely out from a slashed hose that ran along his arm, to a trio of canisters on his back...

In a quick movement, Scott turned around as he drew his blaster handgun, and fired several blazing shots.

It all went up in great, fiery blaze of glory.

/

Serge stood within the mist, the fog of war he knew so well, and listened. Disregarding the background rumble and whir of Cerberus, it had been quiet for some time now. Perhaps the lady feline had given up, and wandered back.

No. If she'd retreated, he would've heard the heavy footfalls of her–

_* Clonk *_

Boot? That was odd...

Noire crept through the smokescreen toward the noise like a ghost, blaster at the ready in one hand, and the other hand staying conveniently available to act at a moment's notice.

The source of the noise, as it appeared, was in-fact a boot– a single heavy steel-toed work-boot– the same boot worn by the mechanic impostors and would-be trespassers. And there the boot was, laying on the floor by itself, without its–

_* Clonk *_

Other boot?

Serge drifted along the corridor once again, this time more weary and more alert than before. It had all the makings of a trap, and Noire was not going to fall for her cheap tricks. The quiet canid scaned through the mist with his sharp eyes, looking for that telltale hint that would give the lady feline away...

And there it was: the stark red fabric of jumpsuit she disguised herself in, some roughly five meteres away, tucked behind the corner to a side passage. Silently, Serge pulled a concussion grenade from an inside coat pocket, and armed its fuse to one-point-five seconds. The grenade should kill very easily, simply with sheer explosive overpressure, but it requires exact aim as its effective kill radius is so small...

He closed his eyes, regulated his breathing to a steady pulse, relaxed his muscles so there was no tension. The steady drumbeat of his heart gradually eased down to a slower, easy rhythm; a rhythm with enough space between beats in which to make his move.

"Précis." he whispered under his breath.

Serge gently lobbed the grenade forward in a calculated underhand toss, and immediately shielded his ears and eyes from the coming blast.

_* Boom! *_

The explosion shook the entire corridor like the loudest, most basal drumbeat in existence, which would describe fairly accurately the effect of a concussion grenade. A small circle in the smokescreen was even cleared away right where the blast occurred.

The quiet candid slipped forward to inspect the body, and confirm that she was dead. He rounded the corner she was hiding behind, but to his shock and confusion, found that there was no body. The jumpsuit was empty–

...

The only thing he remembered was how cold the metal felt against his face, and how much the back of his head stung as pain began to overwhelm him. The screams of agony spread quickly through his mind, obliterating all other thoughts and sensations in its path...

And then there was nothing at all.

/

* * *

_Any thug can kill..._

-M, 007 Casino Royale-

* * *

/

Serge Noire was shaken awake by Shuck in the tight, cramped compartment of what he knew to be the escape pod for Cerberus. The stout, thickly built form of Shuck sat across from him. The bull-canid had been discharged from his armor, half his head was wrapped up in bandages, and the other half showed signs of fresh burns. He said nothing to Serge, but pointed to the pod's A/V comm...

"Would either of you to imbeciles care to tell me _why _the ship has gone missing?"

On the screen was the stone-faced image of Garmir, working very hard to contain his disgust in as tight a composure as he was.

/

* * *

/

Author Note:

Holy crap! This chapter took way too long to get out, and it is totally my fault. I had no idea writing a heist could boggle my mind so hard, it's no wonder you don't see very many of them in fan-fiction. Anyway, I tried a few narrator experiments in this chapter; maybe they worked, maybe they didn't, but they're in there. I really, really hope you enjoyed reading this chapter a lot more than I did writing it, because it was _tough._ For all my complaints though, I did get through it, and I really do think I've become a better writer by overcoming this challenge. What do you all think?

As always, your feedback is most welcome.


	9. On an Angel's Broken Wings

_* Blam! *_

And so began the end.

He could no longer stand on his feet, and collapsed forward onto his hands and knees, heaving with every breath. He could barely see, everything around him was lost in a swirling blur. He could barely hear, his head was still ringing from the blast to his hears. He could barely feel the floor beneath him, or the pistol by his hand that he'd dropped, or the lifeless body lying next to him.

Through the hard floor his head lay against, he heard and felt a pair of rushing footsteps, sprinting closer, panicked by the gunshot. Would they understand? Would they appreciate the terrible sacrifices being made for them? Would they be able to carry on?

They had to. For their sake, they simply _had_ to, or it'd all be for nothing.

He staggered up onto his feet, feeling hopelessly dizzy, disoriented, afraid he might collapse again. His foot got snagged on a pair of motionless legs, and he lost what little balance he had, almost tripping. He caught himself on a hard flat surface though, and blinked his misty eyes a few times as he steadied himself.

That's right, this was his home, this was the kitchen. The body –the woman he shot dead– was his wife, and the two frightened figures in front of her now were their son and daughter. They seemed so much older now, more grown up–

"Oh God!"

"Dad! What happened?"

He stepped forward toward them with open arms, trying as best he could to control his trembling, swaying body. He spoke in a whimpering whisper, fighting against the inner chaos of his shattered mind.

"I love you both, _so_ much..."

He threw his arms around his two children, wrapping one around each of their necks as he drew them closer.

"Please, promise me you won't make the same mistakes I made."

"We won't, Dad" the girl responded, "We promise."

He released them both, and stepped back away from them toward his wife's body.

"Dad?"

"Take care of each other..."  
He scooped up the pistol from the floor, still warm from its last shot, and brought the muzzle under his jaw.

"Dad _no!_"

_* Blam! *_

/

* * *

**による壊れた天使の羽****_  
On an Angel's Broken Wings_**

* * *

/

"So..." an unknown voice began, "What are you going to do now?"

"Who are you?"

They turned around, and found the voice belonged to a taller black-and-white plumed bird of prey, distinguished by his mostly white head, with a harsh band of black across his keen golden eyes.

"I'm Osprey Caldwell," he continued, "and I knew your father, especially near the end. He was a good man caught in a rotten set of circumstances. It's a shame what they did to him, to her. It drove them both _crazy_–"

"Don't you dare talk that way about our parents!"

"Go ahead and hate me if you want, but I'm going to level with you. Thomas Cooney accumulated _staggering_ debts after he lost his job, and with the worst kind of people imaginable. When he failed to pay, the fear drove him pretty much insane, to the point where he killed Angela, your mother, and then himself, trying to protect you."

"Why would he–"

"It doesn't matter anymore!" Caldwell interrupted, "It didn't work, and you're in danger now. The loan sharks are going to come after _you_, and they'll try to force your father's debts on _you_."

"What?"

"It's dirty, mean, and utterly disrespectful. As far as I'm concerned, Tom paid his debts with his blood. You shouldn't have to suffer for his mistakes, but others seem to have different opinions."

"But the police–"

"You think the _police_ can help you here?" he questioned, almost mockingly, "I can list a dozen reasons right now off the top of my head why they won't. Like it or not, you two kids have been sucked into a dark, seething world of lies, backstabbing, and underhanded treachery. If you don't know how to defend yourself down here and keep on your toes, you will be crushed under its heel until you're much less than _nothing..._

"So, I'll ask again: what will you do now?"

/

* * *

_Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall _

-William Shakespeare, _Measure for Measure_-

* * *

/

Saul sat alone in a small faculty office of CCU, away from the cluttered desk, and instead occupied a chair off to one side near the window. It was cloudy today, almost completely overcast, but a few beams of light broke through here and there, but the equine payed little attention to it. He had a pencil in hand, a pad of paper in the other which he occasionally wrote in, and a loose sheet which he occasionally looked at with his darting, inquisitive eyes.

Transitioning into sleeper mode from field work can be a jarring experience. One moment you're tracking the exact whereabouts of your mark, leaving no trace of your actions behind as you play your part and carry out your assignments, and the next moment you're sitting on the sidelines while someone else does what you used to do; what you still crave to do. It was necessary though, He'd seen what happens to those who crack under the pressure, and how that crack can spread out, shattering everything in its wake. That's what happened to Conrad...

For now, Saul found himself occupying his extensive lengths of empty time dycrypting sheet after sheet of coded cyphertext gibberish that he'd encrypted the week before. It was a puzzle, test, a game; to conceal a length of text in a set sequence of alterations, to forget, and then to rediscover at a later point. Maybe that's what the remedial training would be like at the end of many year's sleeper time–

_* Knock *_

The cream equine snapped out of the focus of his decryption, and onto the two visitors standing in his doorway: Richard and Rachelle Cooney. The two of them blended into the university environment seamlessly. You'd never guess that not more than a month ago these two were little more than thieves. But then again, blending into their environment comes intuitively to thieves with any measure of success.

"We're here to apply for the interplanetary studies program." Rick began.

"Pete told us that you'd be able to help us out with that." Rachelle continued.

Even if someone wanted to split up these two, and went through with it, they'd be doing themselves a disservice. It takes years to develop a trusting relationship between operatives, and even then, sometimes the trust is broken, but not for these two. Like all emotionally sealed bonds however, the unbreakable nature could have just as many drawbacks as advantages. For better and quite possibly for worse, the Cooneys came as a packaged deal, whether you wanted them that way or not.

"He told you right..."  
Saul set his pencil and paper aside and stood up, offering the Cooney twins what little hospitality there was while he crossed over to his cluttered desk.  
"Go ahead and take a seat here, and let's explore your options..."

/

* * *

/

_Some Years Earlier..._

He was an older, thinly built raccoon of stone gray fur, yet his frame was thickened and made hard by the many years that lay behind him. He wore a set of sturdy, well used workman's uniform, painted with a variety of dust and greasy stains that spilled onto his fur at places. The aged raccoon strode across the floor of a cathedral-like public hangar facility, past row after row of small to mid-sized spacecraft, carrying himself with the stubborn confidence of someone in his familiar element. An embroidered nametag over the breast pocket of his workshirt identified this man as _'Thomas Cooney'_.

"Here it is:" Tom announced, stopping in front of one vehicle in particular, "An Axiom-Tech Mercutio 2 courier shuttle, slightly used."

He stepped aside and turned around with a cocky grin stretched across his face, presenting a tiny, shuttle-like spacecraft of mundane construction, badly damaged in several places. In front of Tom Cooney now were a pair of much younger and strikingly similar raccoons: Rick and Rachelle Cooney, both in fairly typical street wear. The two of them just stood there on the hangar floor, staring awkwardly at the broken vehicle before them...

"Slightly used, huh?" Rachelle asked, arms folded across her chest.

"Dad..." Rick moaned, with a hand over half his face, "That's a piece of _junk._"

"I know, right?"  
Retaining his lightheartedness, Tom simply stepped up alongside the beaten vehicle and slapped its bent and buckled hull.  
"After I gave the cost estimates for repairing the damned thing, the guy just threw his arms up yelling 'screw it!', and handed me the keys." He extracted a set of said keys from his pants pocket, holding them up for all to see.

"What?" Rick blurted with a laugh, "You don't actuallythink this scrap heap will ever _fly_ again, do you?"

"Psh! Absolutely not, Ricky. I _know _she'll fly again." Tom Cooney looked up and down the Mercutio, the battered spacecraft as if it were an unsolved puzzle. "Just needs a little work done, that's all. I was hoping you'd might want to get in on it."

"You know, I think this could be a _great_ idea..."  
Rachelle stepped forward, scrutinizing the dormant spacecraft with her father.  
"So what kind of damage are we looking at here?"

"After the body work's done it should only be a matter of redoing the electrical system, plus replacing any equipment who's failsafe might've failed..."  
"Just don't tell your mom about it, not yet anyway. It's gonna be a surprise."

"Oh, it'll be a _surprise_ alright," Rick chided. "once she sees the bank account mysteriously run dry paying for this."

"You can be _such_ a downer sometimes, bro." Rachelle teased back, "I bet you get that from Mom."

"I bet I get it from using my head."

"Well Ricky, you know what _I _think?..."  
Tom came alongside his son, and clapped one of his dirty calloused hands on Rick's shoulder.  
"I think you're are gonna change your mind once you get a chance to fly this little beauty for yourself. What'dya say Rick, Rache? Who's getting the first run, huh?"

Rick looked up and down the beaten spacecraft again, with a new set of thoughts going his mind. After a few seconds of consideration, he finally answered his father's question.  
"I think you just might have bought my silence, for now."

"Deal..."  
Tom gave him a quick playful jostle,s and headed straight for the Mercutio.  
"Now come on you two, let's get a full diagnostic on this sucker."

/

* * *

/

Author Note:

I'm not sure how I feel about this chapter. I needed certain parts to get out, but I didn't want to give away too much. So I tried to do things a little bit differently, a change of pace to set these points apart...

Announcement: 

_Star Fox: Legacy_ will be split into multiple volumes. One of the issues I ran into last time with the story is how expansive it became, and how much time it spanned across without break. This time around, roughly each major time period the many stories of _Legacy_ take place will now occupy its own more or less self-contained story. This part of the story is essentially at its close now, and I'm not sure if I want to finish it off with an additional chapter after this, or leave it as is as I move forward.

Now more than ever, your feedback, opinions, even suggestions are welcome.


	10. Turning Points

**別れ目**_**  
Turning Points**_

Rick and Rachelle Cooney sat opposite one another at the kitchen table of their apartment, leaning toward each other in a tired, anxious arch with only a brooding silence between them. They were older now, sapped of their youthful innocence, but not yet their youthful vigor.

"Maybe we should both talk with him about it." Rick suggested.

Rachelle shook her head 'no'.  
"If we both try to talk, he'll just start stonewalling and ignore us both. He thinks we _gang up on him_ that way. It's gotta be just one of us."

The silence came back and reclaimed its territory between the two raccoon siblings, lingering like a thick, awkward fog over the bay at dawn.

"Fine, I'll leave–" Rick muttered, "he considers you less of a threat..."  
He stood up from the table and made his way to to the apartment's exit, grabbing a jacket out of the nearby closet..  
"Make up some excuse why I'm gone, he doesn't have to believe it."

"Rick–"

"And don't force or trick him into it. He has to _choose_ to go through with this–"

"Hey!" Rachelle interrupted, "Don't worry, I got this."

She looked at him, giving her brother silent assurance that no amount of words could match. He relaxed a little, or relented, but he expelled a long sigh either way.

"Okay, okay, alright. I'll be back around..." he opened the apartment door, pausing a moment, "Sometime."

He turned away, and left Rachelle alone in the apartment's kitchen.

After a few moments, Rachelle Cooney stood up and headed down the narrow hall to Jame's room. She stopped outside the poster plastered door, and took a few moments to prepare. Talking to James McCloud was a delicate balancing to begin with, even without having to address issues.

"Jim..." she finally called out, knocking on the door a few times.

There was no answer, but he was in there.

"Open up Jim, we need to talk."

There was a muffled shuffling behind the door, mainly of things being carelessly pushed aside. Then the door slid open, revealing a disastrously cluttered bedroom the likes of which only a teenager could deliver. Clothes lay scattered all over, food wrappers and empty drink containers, and somewhere under everything else was a floor and quite possibly a bed. The only part of the room that was clean and organized was the desk, where a desktop computer terminal and all its accessories stood in neat paradoxical contrast against the cluttered chaos.

"We're talking." a bored, tired voice drolled.

In the room's doorway was James McCloud, who now stood eye to eye with Rachelle. The fox wore a black t-shirt printed with something, maybe a band logo, and a beat up pair of jeans with more than a few rips here and there. His posture was bent and slouched, and his tired steel blue eyes stared off behind Rachelle with barely a care.

"It's about school..." she began, "Your grades."

James hardly reacted; just waited patiently.  
". . . and?"

"Your grades are lagging way behind your classmates, but you can do better –I've _seen_ you do better."

The teenage fox crossed his arms over his chest, defensive.  
"I'm not stupid."

"I never said you were..."  
Rachele had to stop herself and rub the frustration off her brow before going on.  
"You've been testing at the top of your classes, but these great test scores can't make up for blowing off all your other work. You don't complete you homework, and you only barely get your projects done. So what's going on, Jim? Is school just not grabbing your attention or what?"

James shifted awkwardly, and his eyes wandered around

"Jim, I need you to talk back to me."

"The teachers call that _'insubordination'_." the fox scoffed, "It's bullshit, what they're doing there."

". . . and?"

"They talk down to us, treat us like we can't handle anything more than what they give us. I already know the stuff they're trying to teach, and sometimes I know more, but I get shut down whenever I try to say so."

"You find it all too tiresome, don't you?"

James stopped a moment, puzzled, not expecting that response to his little rant.  
"Yeah..."

"Why don't you come on outta there?" Rachelle invited as she turned and left, "There's something I think you should take a look at."

Still puzzled, but also curious, James followed the raccoon out of his room and down the hall, into the apartment's kitchen.

"Rick and I noticed all those flight simulator games you mess around with..."  
She continued into the living room, where she began digging though a number of magazines, envelopes, and other forms of paper mail on the coffee table.  
"I thought you'd get over them after a while, but you've been trucking on them for all these years non-stop."

"What about'em?" James asked, somewhat suspicious.

"We asked around, we've been doing some thinking, and came up with a question for you –a serious one."  
Rachelle came back into the kitchen with a small booklet brochure in her hand, which she offered to James.  
"How would you like to make those flight sims your reality?"

The brochure was for the Cornerian Flight Academy.

"Huh?"  
The fox twitched a little as his eyes lit up, taking the colorful pamphlet  
"Why haven't I heard about this before?"

"Well, you never _asked_ about it." Rachelle answered, suppressing a chuckle, "Your teachers would've told you all about the flight academy and given you this same information, if only you'd gone to them for advice."

James once again hardly reacted, and simply flipped through the brochure, scanning its pages with ravenous eyes.  
"What do I have to do to get in?"

"All the information you need is there, or on their website..."  
She came alongside the fox, resting one of her hands on his shoulders.  
"Listen Jim, the flight academy is one of the absolute toughest places in all Lylat, if you're not up for it–"

"I'm made of tougher stuff." James insisted, "I'll do whatever it takes, and then some."

/

* * *

_Build me a son... who will be strong enough to know when he is weak, and brave enough to face himself when he is afraid, one who will be proud and unbending in honest defeat, and humble and gentle in victory. _

-General Douglas MacArthur-

* * *

/

"And _that,_ little kit-fox, is how you stand at attention..."  
The speaker was burly husky-type canine. His fur was primarily a midnight black tone, but most of his face was a stark white instead, with harsh black patches highlighting the eyes. He was dressed in a simple, utilitarian combat uniform with a round, stiff-brimmed hat anchored onto his head...  
"Questions?"

There must have been hundreds of them; individuals of all species, gender and background, all still dressed in their civilian clothing. They stood roughly at attention in several ranks and files, neatly lined up across a cleared concrete landing plot in a mild afternoon, with a little wind blowing though. Some ways in-front of the ragtag formation, rising hundreds of meteres into the sky above, loomed the unmistakable pyramid structure of a Cornerian military fort...

"I got one one, Drill-Sergeant man..."  
The voice belonged to a lean cinnamon brown vulpine with cocky steel blue eyes.  
"How long are we gonna have to stand here?"

The officer leered down at the cocksure fox, piercing him with a pair of charged electric blue eyes.  
"What is your name?"

"James McCloud."

The husky turned to his side, and pointed out a set of rank insignia on his sleeve.  
"Do you see _these,_ McCloud?"

The fox nodded.

"They are _Captain's_ bars; as in Captain Sobak Soyuz, Academy Instructional Division."  
He stepped away, and addressed the entire formation as he paced back and forth along the first rank.  
"You are all to refer to me either as 'Sir', 'Captain', or 'Captain Soyuz'; not _'Drill Sergeant'_..."  
Soyuz shot his electric glare back toward James.

"Sorry Sir. It won't happen agai–"

"Do I look to you like a _'sorry sir'?_"

James flinched away as the husky bore down over him.  
"Not at all, Captain!"

Soyuz lingered over the shaken fox for a moment, until he stepped away to address the entire formation once more.  
"Listen you rotten ragtag pile of fresh-meat! The General of this fort is to say a few words before we square your asses away into reception! You are to give this man all of the respect he deserves because Hell only knows he's busted a few hundred pairs earning those stars, which is a few hundred more than any of _you_ will be earning any time soon!"

Behind the captain, a doorway at the base of the pyramid building opened up, and a small troupe of guards filed out.  
"Looks like he's on his way out now. Look sharp!"

Following the guards, an immense white furred bear donning the traditional crimson uniform of a Cornerian senior officer emerged from the building's entrance. The many hard years dragged down on the bear's features, but his keen eyes still retained the solidity of soldiery, and his steady steps had none of the instability typical of advanced years.

He broke away from his escorts, and took up the position in front of the formation where Captain Soyuz had been only moments ago.  
"Good afternoon, I am General Mikhail Vostok, the ranking officer of this facility..."  
Without using a loudspeaker system or any audio enhancement, the general's bellowing voice resonated clear across the landing plot under its own power.  
"Allow me be the first to officially welcome you all to my little corner of Hell, otherwise known as Fort Bierce, Corneria, which is to serve as the first of your many training grounds in the Cornerian Flight Academy program."

A few snickers from the formation lingered over the bear's joke.

"Make no mistake fresh Cadets: this _is_ Hell, and you will be subjected to the absolute worst of it before the end. While undergoing your training regimen, I expect and demand you all to find your limits, know your limits, reach your limits and before the end of it, I also expect and demand that you surpass and subsequently _expand_ those limits..."

General Vostok began to walk along the front of the formation, towering over many of those at attention...  
"Each and every one of you have come from somewhere different. Many of you are from Corneria, and the many nations around her. Several over here from Macbeth, some from Zoness or Titania, others from Fortuna, Papetoon, Fichina, or Katina. And if I remember right, at least a few of you are immigrants from far-off Sauria...

He stopped for a moment.  
"Regardless, you are all _here..._"

The General began pacing again.  
"Each and every one of you have come for different reasons. Maybe your home-world military has outsourced its advanced flight training program to us. Maybe you're here to embellish your credentials with our fine name. Maybe you genuinely want to be the best possible pilot, technician, or leader you can be. Or maybe, you're here just for the hell of it!...

"Regardless, you are all _here..._"

"Each and every one of you will be going somewhere different when you're done. Perhaps you will become a brash, agile fighter pilot. Perhaps you will command a fleet of mighty warships. Perhaps you will join one of the many respected interplanetary shipping and transport companies. Perhaps you will serve your home as an honorable member of your local policing forces. Or perhaps you will embark on one of the ambitious interstellar exploration and colonization projects, and travel far beyond the reaches of Lylat itself...

"Regardless, you are all _here..._"

"Maybe you have heard the other branches of military forces talk down to flight folk. They so often claim the members of aerospace forces are too weak or too feeble for the grueling grunt-work they hold their pride to. That will not happen here. On the contrary, in many respects, your training will be even _tougher_ than that of your counterparts. As an example, I have yet to meet a sane marine or soldier who can withstand sixty seconds of complete vacuum unaided, and still claim that CFA graduates are weak and coddled...

"All of you –for the good, the bad, and the horribly ugly– are _here, _at Fort Bierce as cadets of the 89th class of the Cornerian Flight Academy program, and it only gets harder from this point forward. I hope you will find the courage and strength to do what is required of you, or else you've chosen the wrong place to learn. The present constantly surges forward into the future, and will not wait for any stragglers who fall behind...

"I must leave you now in the care of Captain Soyuz."  
The pale ursine general motioned toward the husky type canid that scolded James earlier.  
"I understand there are some procedural details you must be informed of, and I have no intention of wasting your time here... _Proshchánye!_..."

With his speech concluded, General Vostok turned away from the fresh cadets, and marched back into the main pyramidal building of Fort Bierce with his guards in-tow...

"Don't any of you floundering fresh-meat move one single muscle!..."  
Captain Soyuz took the place where the General stood before, and swept away the silence with his sharp voice...  
"_Very_ inspiring, no? General Misha Vostok may be in charge of Fort Bierce, but you are all to be pumped through basic training under _me, _or one of the instructors under _my_ command. You will not be ordered to do anything your superiors would not be willing to do themselves, but if you think for even a moment that means you'll be getting it easy, then you have horribly underestimated our resolve. All I ask of you throughout this process, is that you to keep up... If you can't, then that strange sensation you will come to feel in the seat of your pants will be my boot jammed under your tail!...

The husky allowed a few seconds of silence for the joke, then got back to business.  
"You have _exactly_ one hour to report to requisitions, whereupon you will be issued your necessary equipment, assigned a platoon for initial training, and your personal belongings placed into storage. From there, the rest of the receiving phase of basic training will begin."

Captain Soyuz scanned the formation again.  
"Dismissed!"

The formation dissolved into a shifting, shuffling mass of bodies. Some were nervous, some were excited, and some others were locked in stone-faced determination, as was James McCloud–

"Hey! You there! Jimmy McCloud!" a swinging voice called out from somewhere, "A word of advice, friend –what you did there with the Captain– that kind of tomfoolery just ain't gonna sit well here."

The voice belonged to an excited hare with a dusty gray-brown fur tone. He barely contained himself, and chattered on and on. While the other fresh cadets milled around them.

"And you–?"

"Y'see, I come from a military family;" he just plowed through Jame's words and kept right on going, "Pops was in the army, as is my brother, half a dozen cousins, and even a nephew –don't ask how, it's complicated. Anywhat, y'all just don't stick your neck out on the chopping block to get axed like that, it's not the smart thing to be doing."

"I'm sorry, who exactly are you?" the fox finally had a chance to ask.

"Family name's Hare." he answered quickly, "Mostly they just call me Peppy, or Peppy Hare."

"Huh, I can't imagine why..." James bantered as the two exchanged a solid handshake, "That's not your real name, is it?"

"Heh, nope," Peppy replied with a chuckle "but I and others don't mind much, and there's a story behind it too..."

The two fresh friends headed toward the pyramid building of Fort Bierce, gradually joining in with the many other cadets as they filed in.

/

* * *

/

-Some years later, someplace else-

Adrian Crane rode through the Wayland Institute of Technology's narrow and familiar campus streets on a sporty powercycle. Though hover models have become increasingly popular in recent years, ground-grippers still held wide appeal in their simplicity, conservative power consumption, modulability, and a certain ineffable flare among several other qualities. The avian rider himself was mostly hidden behind a durable helmet, riding duster, and a number of other garments made for safety.

He continued through the campus, past a number of cleverly engineered sculptures, buildings which sported their own unique take on architecture, and several members of WIT's colorful student body and faculty. The combination of so much practical technical knowledge, ambitious youthful vigor, and staggering academic pressure have resulted in some of the most bizarre occurrences of any institution in Lylat. These often manifested in the unofficial traditional WIT student pranks, one of which had just occurred, and the architect of which Adrian Crane had to meet for himself...

He pulled up to the side of the street and parked his powercycle in front of a ordinary housing structure. The only distinguishing feature of the building was a sign over the front door which read: 'ШЮЖ' – a fraternity house. The avian mechanic approached the front door, and was promptly greeted by the disembodied voice of the house's intercom system.

"_Sha-Yu-Zhe house, WIT chapter. What business brings you?"_

"It's Crane, I called ahead about Barclay hall."

"_Ardy buddy! Come on in, you're not gonna believe who pulled off that latest stunt–"_

The voice was interrupted, cut off by Adrian's sharp reply.  
"I'd prefer it if you sent him out here, for privacy purposes you know."

"_Can't do that, you know better than anyone the conditions under which this identity gets revealed."_

"I'm notgoing to turn him over to the Dean or anything." Ardy replied as he rolled his eyes and shook his head, "Come on Irving you can trust me, I used to run this frat-house. Cut me a little slack here, for old time's sake."

The voice hesitated for a moment._  
"Fine, fine. Just for now I'll grant you this favor, but I'm revoking your alumni privileges if you screw us over."_

"Fair enough."

After a few moments, the front door of the fraternity house slid open, and a portly young swine emerged.

"Yo!"

"Seriously?..."  
With a scowl etched on his features and irritation grinding his voice, Adrian spoke into the intercom.  
"I'm not here to play your games Irving, send him out here like I asked."

"_But he is out."_ the voice replied.

The avian mechanic glanced over his shoulder to the portly swine that Irving referred to.  
"This freshman?"

"_I said you wouldn't believe it."_

Ardy turned and stepped away from the intercom to question the young student directly.  
"_You're_ the mastermind behind Barclay hall's zero-gravity corridor? _You_ figured it all out?"

"Sure am," He answered, beaming with pride "got a problem with that?"

"My gosh, how old are you?"

"Sixteen."

"_Sixteen?_"

The young swine snapped back, offended by Adrian's accusatory tone.  
"Hey man, I don't want any of your bullshit judgments, I _earned_ my place here fair and square. Once they figured out that I was a little smarter than the average bone-head, I got fast-tracked outta regular school straight to higher education. Passed the entry exams for this joint no-sweat, and now I'm riding through on merit scholarships. I wouldn't even _be_ here if I wasn't good enough."

"Alright you've made your point, you don't have to get so sore about it." The avian mechanic replied with a sigh, "I'm just a little surprised, that's all."

The portly student gave Adrian a scoff, a shrug and a response.  
"Hell you ain't the first, I've surprised lots of people: my folks, school teachers, professors, shrinks."

"And you can probably surprise even more people to come..."  
Ardy started walking away from house, and gestured the swine to follow.  
"So kid, you got a name?"

"Pigma Dengar, I'm doing Engineering and Computer Sciences here at WIT."

"Adrian Crane, but call me Ardy..."  
He stopped about halfway between the house and street, and checked around to see if anyone was within earshot.  
"I'm a part of a military contractor team. We're an independent small-scale mercenary unit that operates for various clients and interested parties all across Lylat. I'm the team's mechanic, smartass, general know-it-all, and graduate of the Wayland Institute of Technology."

"No way! You're an honest to goodness merc?"

"Better believe it." Ardy answered with a small chuckle.

"Man, you guys are like the baddest-ass there is!"

The avian mechanic shrugged with a humble appreciation.  
"Thing is any techno-wonk can fix a broken gadget, repair an engine or reprogram a computing system, but to take these practical skills to the mercenary world requires a certain... _attitude. _It's not an attitude you're going to find advertised openly, it's an attitude that'd get folks into trouble in most other lines of work, and it's the same attitude someone would need to follow-through with these famously elaborate WIT student pranks..."  
He offered his hand to Pigma, who took it and gave a gracious shake.  
"Nice work on Barclay hall, kid."  
With that, Ardy turned his back and continued toward the street-curb where his powercycle sat parked.

He was made it to the street just as Pigma's voice cut through the silence.  
"You think I have what it takes to get in on that mercenary action."  
It wasn't a question, but a confident statement of fact.  
"That's why you came looking for me, ain't it?"

Adrian Crane stopped dead in his tracks, then released a sigh with his head hung.  
"Yeah..."  
He swung a leg over and mounted the sporty powercycle  
"But you're _way_ too young."

"Whoa now hold on just a second here."  
Pigma rushed in front of the avian mechanic, blocking his exit.  
"What difference does it make how old I am if I got the goods, huh? I bet can handle this mercenary thing, give me a chance and I'll _prove _it to you!"

"It's not that simple..."  
Ardy looked up and saw the young swine glaring into him, with his eyes focused sharp by sheer determination. Crane looked around again, to the frat-house, down the street, at his own hands as they gripped the handlebars. They were tense – his entire figure was tense. All the while Pigma Dengar was still there in front of him, waiting and watching...

Finally, Adrian unwound his tension, and he leg go of his powercycle's handlebars.  
"But if you think you're up to it, I might be able to meet you halfway..."  
He dismounted before continuing, much to Pigma's obvious satisfaction.  
"Keep your head screwed on straight, finish your studies here, and if you're still interested after other opportunities have come and gone... let's just say I'll leave the door open you."

"For real?"

"No promises..."  
Ardy reached into a pocket and produced a Star Terrier business card, which he held out to the near-ecstatic Pigma.  
"If you really want this chance, you're going to have to earn it fair and square."

Dengar took the card and held it proudly like a winning lottery ticket.  
"You ain't gonna regret this Ardy, just you wait."

"We'll see..."  
Adrian walked past Pigma back toward the Sha-Yu-Zhe fraternity house, and spoke into the intercom when he got to the door.  
"I'll come in now Irving. Gotta say, this Pigma kid sure is full of surprises."

"_Isn't he though? Come on in Ardy, let's keep this thing going in person, I never liked talking to old friends through a vox-box anyway..."_

The door opened, revealing an interior thick with the lively social atmosphere of college life.

"So how _did_ you pull-off the zero-gravity corridor anyway?" the avian mechanic asked as he stepped through the doorway.

Pigma followed after him with an answer  
"Oh it was pretty easy actually..."

The door slid shut once the two of them were inside.

End Part One

Author Note:

Well, that's the end of the first volume. There will be more to come, and I hinted at where some of it will be going, even giving the first introductions of Peppy and Pigma. There will be plenty more to come, trust me.

As always, your feedback is most welcome.


End file.
